


With or Without You

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Divorce, Established Relationship, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Marriage, Mj's Stories, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock had been married before John left for Afghanistan. While John was away serving Queen and Country, a bad man made Sherlock fall to his death.<br/>John came back home; broken. Then, he met Mary; fell in love, and decided to make her his wife.</p><p>Then, Sherlock came back.</p><p>Semi- canon compliant<br/>Set in a world, where same-sex marriage has always existed (as it should!) and is not any different than heterosexual marriage (as it shouldn't be!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock-

I can send you emails from the commons computer, but I thought you might appreciate writing letters to one another instead; thought it might appeal to your ridiculous Victorian romantic side that you think you hide so well from me.

I miss you. I can’t even begin to put into words how much I miss you. Sometimes I sit outside my tent at night and run my fingers through the sand and look up at the sky; it’s so endless. I know that somewhere on the other side of that endless horizon is London; is you. And I can see you sitting up in your lab with those ridiculous safety glasses that make your eyes look just a little bit too big, or standing at the window playing your violin. Sometimes I just see your face and the way it turns into your smile; the kind that takes over your whole face-it starts at the edges of your mouth and works up into a wrinkle at your nose, and your eyes light up just before the corners of your eyes wrinkle. It’s beautiful.

I’m sorry that I had to do this. Well, no, I’m not sorry for offering my service to my country, but I am sorry for leaving you behind. I promised you that you would never be lonely again; it was the first promise I made to you. I hope that you aren’t lonely. Even if you have to have tea with Mycroft, please just don’t be lonely.

I love you.

John

 

 

 

Dear John,

I believe the way to describe your feelings are close to the way I have been feeling; I don’t necessarily feel as though I miss you, but rather that you are missing from me. And I am finding it to be a rather unpleasant experience. Is that Victorian and romantic enough for you?

I often have finding myself thinking about your hands. I don’t know if I ever told you they are my favorite part of you. Your eyes are beautiful, your lips are delicious, but your hands are fantastic. They hold the absolute essence of who you are. Your hands take care of people, they take care of me. And I can only imagine how much more wonderful they will be when you return.

I assure you that I am not lonely, John, and will never be lonely enough to willingly have tea with Mycroft.  While I would prefer you to be here I can easily adapt to what my life was like before I knew you; temporarily at least.

SH

 

 

 

Sherlock-

I’m sorry I haven’t been able to write for a while, but I’ve gotten all of your letters. It’s been crazy over here, but it is a war zone, yeah? I would tell you all about it, but they would only censor it out, so I’ll just go with the usual.

I fucking miss you; every single inch of you. It’s torture having all the knowledge on how to please and satisfy and break you down, but not be able to a thing about it. But believe me SHerlock Holmes, I will do everything I know over and over and again until we both forget who we are. So, start preparing yourself now.

Please be careful with these cases you’ve been taking on. I know you say you are working with the police and New Scotland Yard, but I also know you, so please, please, please be careful, and don’t do anything too reckless since I know you’re going to be a little bit reckless no matter what I say.

I’m on patrol soon, and I don’t want to lose this, so I’m going to finish up and drop it off.

I love you Sherlock, absolutely love you.

John

 

 

 

Dear John,

I was thinking the other day about our first real date, and how terrible it was. I had tried to tell you that I was no good at things like that, but you still made me plan everything, and I failed John; I spectacularly failed. And then it started to rain, no it started to pour, and I couldn’t get a cab-me! I couldn’t get a cab, so we walked back to my flat, because you didn’t want me to go to yours, and we stood on the steps; soaking wet and laughing. I thought you would be mad at me, but you just kissed me and then you smiled. That’s how I want to remember you; soaking wet and beautiful. And I want you to always remember me loving you. Not the experiments, not the deductions, not the work, John, because none of it matters, none of it is real, but you-you and me, and every ugly sentimental thing you ever made me feel is real. So, remember that; just that.

Goodbye John.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John was awoken in the middle of the night. The foggy sensation of being ripped from his sleep wasn’t anything new; in fact, he had learned a long time ago how to sleep lightly enough that he hardly ever reached a true REM cycle. So, it wasn’t being woken in the middle of the night that surprised him, but rather it was the care in which he was brought out of his sleep.

His General shook him, softly saying his name until John’s eyes opened. He didn’t see the look of his action in his eyes, so John took a moment to blink into reality. His dim lamp had been flicked on, his weapon moved from where it usually lay just barely underneath his cot so that the General could lean by his bedside.

“Is everything alright sir?” John managed to ask.

“There’s someone here to see you Captain.”

_Someone there to see him; in the desert of Afghanistan?_

“Who?”

“Unfortunately he wouldn’t tell me his name, but it said it was important that I fetch you immediately.”

John pressed his fingers into his eyes, rubbing the fatigue away. He reached for his boots at the bottom of his bed, slipped them and loosely laced them up. He found his white shirt from the day earlier folded neatly on the small table inside the tent and slipped it on, covering his dog tags. The General waited for him, and when John was ready he followed his superior out into the night. They crossed a small area of the camp to a tent on the other side that was often used as a common meeting place to eat. The General opened the flap and immediately left John.

John looked through the dim lamps and saw Mycroft leaning against his sleek, black umbrella as it sunk into the sand underneath their feet, trying to ignore the sweat building at his collar underneath his three piece suit.

Of course Mycroft would come to see him in the Afghan desert, and of course he would have his stupid umbrella, and of course he would be wearing a suit; probably not one of his better ones, but a complete, bloody three piece suit none the less.

“What are you doing here?” John asked, completely dazed to see his brother-in –law standing in the tent with him.

John took a small step closer to get a read on his face. It wasn’t the usual cold stone that was so often present, but it seemed to be more...sad. John had never seen a true emotion cross Mycroft’s face, but there was something there now; small, and likely unnoticed to someone who had never spent any period of time with him, but it was obvious to John, and suddenly he didn’t feel very good.

“John,” Mycroft started his voice as cool as ever, “perhaps you should take a seat.”

John didn’t like conversations that began with those words. The last time someone told him ‘to take a seat’ they had proceeded to tell him that his Father had cancer. John did not want to sit. He was a soldier, he was strong, so he would stand through whatever it was Mycroft was on the verge of telling him.

“Is Sherlock alright?” he asked.

It should have been his first question upon seeing his husband’s brother suddenly standing before him in the last place John ever thought he would see him standing before him. And then Mycroft’s face changed again; it softened completely; his eyes dropped, his mouth relaxed into a frown.

John knew then.

Sherlock was not alright.

“I’m afraid not John.”

“What-what’s happened?”

“Sherlock is...dead.”

That was not was John was expecting to hear, and suddenly he felt very much like he wished he had been sitting; As if sitting would have made hearing those three words any better, any easier to digest. Of course sitting wouldn’t have made anything better, but John felt like he couldn’t stand anymore; like his legs were about to give out underneath him and he was going to crash down into the endless pile of sand.

Mycroft made no move to comfort him, and John didn’t expect him to. He was sure that in that moment, if Mycroft suddenly decided to show more human emotion than he already had been that John would only push him away, punch him in the face; kill the messenger as it were.

“How?” John finally squeaked out.

Mycroft opened his mouth to explain just what had gone so horribly wrong, but it wasn’t words that John heard. It was a bang, almost like the top of a champagne bottle being popped, and then the sweet hiss of the escaping bubbles; just like the ridiculously expensive champagne he and Sherlock drank the night of their wedding. If John had not just been told that his husband was dead he would have realized that the sound he heard wasn’t champagne, but rather, it was a bullet.

That bit of information didn’t register with him until he felt a terrible burning and ripping sensation rush into the center of his left shoulder. His legs chose that moment to finally go out from underneath him, and he crashed down into the endless pile of sand.

He wasn’t quite unconscious and was slightly aware of his hurried transport from the commons tent to the medical tent. There was no more gunfire; just that one shot that sunk deep into his flesh. He watched the whirl around him, the blurry image of green and brown and red; that must have been the blood. He always thought that if he was in his last moments of life he would beg for it to not happen; there was so much for him to live for that he hadn’t been ready to leave, but in this moment of possible death, he wasn’t begging for life, but for _release_. Not because the pain was unbearable, but because if he survived he would be returning to nothing. He found himself playing the ‘if’ game as he was laid across the uncomfortable cot of the medical tent.

 _If you smoke that entire pack of cigarettes Sherlock, I’m going to smoke one as well._ Because Sherlock would never let John do that to himself.

_If you set yourself on fire for an experiment Sherlock, I’m going to as well._

_If you die Sherlock...Then I’ll die too._

But Sherlock was already dead; there was no ‘if’ about it; no game to play. John’s eyes finally closed, his consciousness slipping away and he relished in the calm of the black behind his eyelids.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The funeral was unbearable. John stayed retreated within himself, because he didn’t know anybody there. He could make who they were from Sherlock’s letters, but he didn’t know them, and it was clear that they had no knowledge of who he was. He could have introduced himself, could have had the two people who did know who he was do it for him, but he didn’t.

He managed to make it through the service, and then snuck away before the trip to the cemetery. He had left his own husband’s funeral, but he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take the anger that he felt; the anger towards Sherlock for doing that to him, the anger he felt towards himself for leaving Sherlock on his own. Had he never gone like Sherlock has asked (begged?) would any of this be happening?

Mrs. Hudson had invited a few people to go back to Baker Street when everything was over with. John had mentioned that it might be better if they gather in her flat, but she insisted that it was too small and that would people need the closure of being around Sherlock’s things, so John had relented. Now that he had arrived home he went through the ritual of making tea, laid out the salads and the sweets Mrs. Hudson had carefully set in the fridge amongst the take-away and body parts, and sat down for the strangers to come and mourn; Strangers to John, but friends to Sherlock. John laughed at that thought.

The wait wasn’t long. Soon Mrs. Hudson and the mousy pathologist were sniffling in the kitchen, and the Detective Inspector, Lestrade was near the fireplace with a cardboard box in her hands speaking with Mycroft. He watched Mycroft dig through the box and take out some small trinket John couldn’t make out and slip it into his pocket. He also fished out an ID card and handed it to the detective with an amused grin; he laughed and shook his head, taking the card and looking at it fondly. When he tried to push the entire box into Mycroft’s arms he shook his head and motioned to John. The DI gave him a confused look, but went to John, sitting in his read chair.

He regarded the black leather chair for a moment as if deciding whether or not it was okay to sit down in it. He seemed to decide not, and pulled a desk chair over instead to sit near to John.

“Uh, Mycroft thought you might want this. It’s Sherlock’s things from....” his voice trailed off.

“Uh, yes, thank you.” John said, taking the box and eyeing the beautifully folded coat back on the top. His throat caught, capturing his breath inside as he slowly and tentatively pulled the coat out, letting it unfold until the bottom hem nearly touched the floor. He had held that coat dozens of times, taking it from the hook on the back of the door and handing it to Sherlock or holding it open for Sherlock to slide his arms through like the very first time he ever wrapped that wool around his body insisting to John that it was too expensive, and if he needed to buy Sherlock a gift, to get him something else. But John saw the desire in his eyes when Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror, and there was never anything John wouldn’t do to satisfy that desire.

Left in the box was Sherlock’s pocket watch, his magnifier and his mobile. John set the box aside and reached for the coat again, very aware that Lestrade was watching him, trying to figure it all out. John slipped his hand into the outer pockets of the coat; nothing. He slipped his hand into the inner breast pocket, and there he felt it; smooth, cold metal. John pulled out the simple gold band and held t between his thumb and forefinger.

“Is that...” Lestrade started.

“A wedding ring; yes.”

“Sherlock’s wedding ring?”

John smiled, or at least he attempted to smile, and reached into the neck of his shirt to pull at the silver chain underneath and reveal his dog tags. He lifted them over his head, took the chain apart and slid the ring to where John’s had existed the years he had been away for safe keeping, before he could put it back on his finger.

“Yes.” He answered, and met Greg’s eyes, only Greg was looking at John’s hand and finally figuring it all out; no wonder he had needed Sherlock’s help.

“He never said- I never saw-“

“No, I suppose he never did say, and no he never wore it; said t was too itchy or interfered with his work, or claimed he didn’t want to ruin it with caustic chemicals during an experiment. But he always kept it on him; in a pocket, on the chain of his watch, once he tucked it into his sock.”

“Been in the Army then?” he asked, now looking at the dog tags.

“Two years into a three year tour; left 15 months after we got married.”

“Jesus.”

“We had two years together before I left. He thought that three years apart was a lifetime; I told him it wouldn’t be so bad, and now here I am, truly facing a lifetime without him.”

John sighed and gave way to a nervous laugh.

“I’m sorry; didn’t mean ti unload all of that on you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Look, if you ever wanna talk or get a drink or need a friend, give me a call, yeah? Sherlock was, well, he was a lot, but he was a great man, and he was my friend.”

“You were his friend too. He said on several occasions that you weren’t always a complete idiot.”

Lestrade laughed, “The highest of compliments.”

“From Sherlock, yes.”

Lestrade smiled and sat with John in the silence for a moment before getting up and heading over to the kitchen. John watched him reveal his secret to Molly; saw a little bit of extra sadness spread across her face as she sent him a smile. It wasn’t long after that everyone left. Mrs. Hudson did the cleaning; took the dishes down to her flat and left John with a plate in the fridge and water in the kettle. Mycroft only gave John a nod before he and his umbrella left too.

John sat in his chair; alone again in the flat. He stared at the empty chair across from him, willing an image of Sherlock to appear. He would give anything, absolutely anything to run his fingers through that deliciously dark hair and get them tangled up in the unruly curls. His lips ached to feel Sherlock’s lips against hi again; the soft, tender shell that gave way to his mouth which always tasted of tea and tobacco. John wanted to feel his hands again; deceptively rough from years of experimentation and violin playing, smelling faintly of chemicals. He wanted t sink down, right there on the floor between Sherlock’s legs and just rest his head on his thigh, and feel him, and breathe him in. But the best that John could do was to slink across the gap and curl up into a ball on the worn down, black leather, and cry until his heart shattered away in his chest. 


	4. Chapter 4

Bills needed to be paid, mail needed to be collected, and dishes needed to be done. Life had to go on. No matter how badly John wanted things to stop, wanted to stay buried underneath the heavy blankets of bed life had. To. Go. On.

So, three months passed and John woke early in the morning, started the kettle and got into the shower. He made his tea, made his toast and slowly made his way through them both. Six months passed and John found a job at a clinic far away from the rooftop Sherlock had jumped from. Financially, he didn’t need the work; Sherlock’s trust had been released to Mycroft and Mycroft released it to John. It was enough, combined with his pension and their joint account for John to be comfortable, but he needed something to get him out of the suffocation of the flat. Nine months passed, and then twelve, and then John started packing away some of Sherlock’s things. He put away his clothes, leaving only his favorite button up; the lapis one he was wearing the night they first met, and his collection of dressing gowns, and his great coat. Everything else found its way into a cardboard box and upstairs with his lab equipment, case notes and laptop. The skull remained on the mantle and the books on the shelves.

Work had become his life; scheduling patients early. Scheduling them late, and taking his time making more than thorough notes. He finally understood Sherlock’s original admission of, “married to my work” now that he carried around a daily pain that made nothing else matter. The only bright spot to ever graying days was Mary.

The two of them had bonded over their mutual loss of a loved one; Mary’s fiancée had also died; four years earlier in a car accident that she had managed to survive. They traded jokes throughout the work day, and more serious conversation at the pub over a shared basket of chips and several pints. She understood John’s pain, and he understood hers.

“This is a lovely place.” Mary said once she finally set foot into Baker Street.

“Thank you. It was Sherlock’s before it was ours.”

“It was strange when it was just yours huh?”

“Very. Still is to tell you the truth.”

“You get used to it.”

“Do you?”

Mary gently smiled and handed her coat to John for him to hang up. He put it on top of his own, leaving the other hook empty.

“No, you don’t.” she answered, “You just get better at lying to yourself.”

John responded with a knowing laugh and started toward the kitchen, “Tea?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

John went about making tea and watching Mary admire the objects in the sitting room. She stopped at a picture on the mantle.

“Is this him?” she asked.

John handed her a cup of hot tea, “Yes; from our wedding. He refused to pose for anything, so this is the best we got.”

John set his own cup down and ran an absent finger across the picture; a stolen moment just after their vows; their fingers entwined, John laughing at something unseen and Sherlock staring down at John’s face, smiling with every beautiful muscle as of John was a precious treasure.

“He was very handsome.”

“Handsome is an understatement. He was bloody gorgeous.”

Mary laughed, and then looked around the room.

“The couch or the red chair.” John said to her unasked question.

Mary took the couch and John followed. They sat in an oddly comfortable silence for a few moments until John spoke again to break it.

“Want to watch some telly?”

“That would be nice.”

John turned the television on to find a marathon of Bond movies. He laughed fondlyat the memory of watching them with Sherlock one night, and the memory of what happened afterward. They settled in watching the movies, eventually ordering take-away and opening a bottle of wine. Mary fell asleep shortly after midnight, her head falling from John’s shoulder down into his lap. He reached behind them and pulled down the blanket to lay over Mary.

She was quite a beautiful woman; short blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. Her smile was large and infectious, and able to convey whichever emotion she was feeling at the time. John found himself running his fingers through her hair as he watched the credits for “Die Another Day.”

It was two more months of platonic evenings at the pub and afternoons at the cinema before John found himself on his first actual date with Mary. They both tried their best to talk about their pasts before the men they had loved; to try and understand one another in a context that was purely themselves. It led to guiltless laughter, long forgotten memories and a gentle kiss on Mary’s doorstep. One date into five, one kiss turned into a dozen, and John found himself pressed between the leather of his couch and the soft, tender flesh of Mary’s body.

“John,” Mary said, “I would love to continue this, but I’m afraid my couch shagging days are far behind me.”

John laughed, “You mean you expect me to spoil you with an actual bed?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Mary rolled herself off from John and reached down to his hand. John took it and led her back into the bedroom. He kissed at her lips, tugged at her bra (it had been quite a few years since he had to figure one of these out), and laid her down across the duvet. As if he had been doing this for all f his life, and truthfully he had done it for most of it, he searched out the places on her body that would give her the most pleasure. He felt the soft dimensions of her body, traced the beautiful curves, and she whispered his name into the darkness; a gentle plea for him to keep going, but John had no intention of stopping; he had just always been a very thorough and focused lover.

When it was over and John’s mind was taken back down to the planet, he was suddenly very aware of where he was and what had happened.

“Shit.” He exclaimed, rubbing his finger over his ring and taking a glance to the picture of Sherlock he kept on the bedside table. Mary leaned over and rested her hand carefully on John’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine; I just, I forgot for a moment; forgot that I was sad and angry. I forgot that I missed him, and then I remembered where we are; that this was where we slept together, where we made love, where he thought of me when I was away, and where I think of him...”

“John, I’m sorry. I should have just given into the couch.”

John reached behind him and rested his hand on top of hers. “It’s not your fault, and I don’t feel guilty about what we did, but I wasn’t prepared to forget him.”

“You didn’t forget him; you just moved him to another place. You’re never going to forget him John, and I would never ask you to, but you are eventually going to move on.”

She kissed he back of his head and slipped out from the bed, “I’m going to go.” She sad.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do. I’ll see you tomorrow at the hospital.” She kissed him one more time, “Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Mary.”

When she left, John let out a long, aching sigh and pressed his head into the pillow. He reached to the old, faded photograph and held it tightly in his hand against his chest. Moving on felt strange. Pretending to go on with his life was one thing, dating Mary and beginning to find a happiness he had lost was another, but acknowledging that she was important, letting her into their bedroom without any thought to Sherlock was painful.

Letting go of the pain seemed to hurt more than carrying it around with him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5 chapters and I haven't even as so much said hi-  
> Rude.
> 
> So, Hi everybody! I was just on autopilot with the posting for this story, because I somehow managed to have time to do it!  
> I hope you have enjoyed so far and continue to enjoy. I've had this idea in my head FOREVER and when I sat down to start writing in my Avengers notebook it just started pouring out of me. I'm kind of going for a more minimalistic approach to my writing style with this one, because as a write I'm constantly looking to do new things...Not sure if that's a good thing however!
> 
> Also, this is a monster of a chapter (compared to the others, especially)- I had a lot to accomplish.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated- good or bad- just make sure it's constructive :)

 love her then?” Greg asked, holding the ring John had handed him underneath the shine of the light above the table they sat at in the pub near the Yard. Several months after he started seeing Mary he also started spending time with Greg. Having weekly drinks with someone who knew the insanity Sherlock Holmes could cause, someone who had taken an interest in taking of him while John was away became an important part of his healing process.

“I don’t think I could love her anymore if I tried.”

Greg smiled, and handed the ring back to John. He thought what John had said was a romantic confession, that he loved Mary with all of his heart. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either. There was no way that John could love her any more than he did, but that was only because he had so little love left to give to her. Sherlock would always be his first, his last, his everything real and true, but Mary was special too; she had saved him, and loved him, and he owed her.

“So, when are you going to do it?” Lestrade asked.

“Uh, in about two hours.” John answered through nervous laughter, “I just needed to tell someone first.”

“Bit of reassurance?”

“Something like that.”

“Not being happy for the rest of your life isn’t going to bring him back. If you and Mary can have a life with each other and move on from your pain then you should.”

John took the last drink from his pint, and held back the temptation to cry, “Thank you Greg.”

He paid for his drink, tucked the ring back into its box and then into his pocket. He went back to the flat and took notice of the ways Mary had already permanently placed herself into his life.

An afghan she had kitted years ago was draped over the back of John’s chair, her pink porcelain mugs sat dirty in the sink, and her clothes were folded neatly in a dresser drawer in the bedroom. He undressed and placed his wedding ring on his bedside table and padded down to the bathroom. He found more evidence of Mary’s permanency there; her toothbrush in the holder, her towel behind the door, and her underwear on the floor where she left it before leaving for work. It made John smile. He showered, dressed in his new navy blue suit, and deliberately left his ring where he had set it earlier. He locked up the flat and hailed a cab.

When he asked her; her face lit by the candlelight, she quirked up the corners of her lips and slowly nodded her answer. John clumsily slid the ring onto her finger, and kissed her pale pink lips. Their happiness had over run their appetite, but they still managed to share a dessert and two bottles of champagne. When they were finished, John pulled her from her chair and they left the restaurant arm in arm. Laughing, and a little bit drunk, John didn’t even notice the black car that was crawling behind them as they took in the night air.

It hadn’t been lost on Mary, however.

“John? There’s a car that’s been following us for the last block.”

“Hmmm, what?” John stopped them from walking and looked behind. The car stopped as well.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

John unhooked their arms and walked over to the car. He rapped his knuckles against the tinted window and waited for it to roll down. Mycroft was (expectantly) on the other side, his tight mimic of a smile screwed all the up to his eyebrows.

“John, so lovely to see you.” He smoothed out.

“Of all the nights, Mycroft, that you choose to show up again, it has to be tonight.”

Mycroft stole a glance to Mary, standing on the sidewalk, the hem of her green dress brushing against the cement; confusion on her face.

“Ahh, yes; Congratulations to you and Ms. Morstan.” He brought his attention back, “Now get in the car John. Bring your new fiancé if you must.”

Mycroft opened the door. John let out a defeated sigh and reached for Mary’s hand.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Just get in the car darling.”

John helped Mary slide into the seats on the opposite side of Mycroft, and then settled in next to her, holding onto the hand she was gripping tightly at his thigh.

“And explanation for this kidnapping please; it’s been nearly three years.”

“It’s a rather sensitive matter; Best not to discuss it in front of Ms. Morstan.”

“Anything you have to discuss with me, you can discuss with Mary.”

“I’m afraid not this.”

“Could you at least tell me where we’re going?”

“I’ll be dropping you off at The Meridian, and then bringing Ms. Morstan home; to her flat or yours; I’ll let her choose.”

“Excuse me,” Mary finally interjected her voice, “but I’m not going anywhere without John. I don’t even know who you are.”

“How rude of me; I do apologize.” Mycroft held his hand out in the space between them, “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Holmes?”

“Sherlock’s brother.”

“Oh.” She turned to John, “Why is your former brother-in law kidnapping us?”

“I don’t know.” He whispered back to her.

“John has some business to attend.”

“How lovely of him. I think I will be attending it as well.”

“Oh, I don’t think you should.”

“Mycroft…” John warned in a tone he had only reserved for dealing with the Holmes’ brothers.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and shifted his umbrella against the floor of the car, “Very well.”

They continued the ride in silence and eventually pulled up in front of the hotel. They all three stepped out and into the lobby.

“Will you tell me what we’re doing here now?” John asked.

“It will become clear soon enough.”

Mycroft reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a ley card to hand to John.

“Room 427. Ms. Morstan and I will wait down here.”

John relented his steely gaze and leaned in to kiss Mary’s check.

“If I’m not back in 30 minutes, stab him with the umbrella and come get me.”

Mary laughed, and kissed gently at his temple.

He walked away, down the marble floor of the lobby and into the golden cased elevator. “Bloody British government” he mumbled to himself as the door closed in front of him. What Mycroft could actually want was beyond him. He had barely spoken three words to him since the funeral; although he knew there was still a bit of surveillance at the flat; once a part of the family, always a part of the family John had supposed.

He got out on the fourth floor and followed the hallway down until he reached 427. He placed his ear against the wood of the door and tried to listen for what was behind it, but he heard nothing. he slipped the card into the slot and tentatively opened the door. He stepped inside; no one. The room was empty of people, but there were obvious clues that someone was staying there, and had been for quite a while. The bed was unmade with the pillows at the bottom of the mattress and the duvet tangled up in itself. Shirts and trousers stuck out from the dresser, and a still warm, uneaten meal sat on the table along with several empty bottles of sparkling water, and a cup of tea gone cold. There was also a cigarette still burning itself out in an ashtray on the desk accompanied by several more that had been smoked down to their shell.

John walked further into the room, and heard the faint sound of water running behind the closed bathroom door. After a few seconds it stopped, and John heard the shuffle of bare feet against tile, the flip of a light switch and the creak of the doorknob underneath a heavy hand. He braced himself for whatever might appear from behind that opening door, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing that could have braced him for what he saw.

His eyes went to the legs first; long, pale and bare underneath a black dressing gown. Then his eyes jumped to the face; sculpted chin, cheekbones and prominent nose. Then John’s eyes found the others upon that beautiful face; green, blue, green again, oh, and then there was the flicker of gold. Finally he found the mop of dark, unruly and slightly damp hair that brought everything together. John’s heart stopped beating; he could feel it slow down until eventually there was no more sound or pressure against his chest.

“You’re early.” The other said.

The blood quickly, painfully, rushed back into the vessels of John’s heart upon that rich, velvet baritone hitting his ears. It pulsed faster and faster with each breath he tried to take until he felt like maybe he was going to explode.

“Sher-“he started, but wasn’t able to finish the rest of the word; he wasn’t even sure how he had started to say anything in the first place.

He stood there; staring at the ghost of his husband; the man he had begged to come back to him so many times. He didn’t know what to do; faint, scream, cry, punch him in the face or kiss him.

“You’re going to have to choose one.” Sherlock said in his cool, passive tone, reading the thoughts on John’s face.

Punch him. Definitely punch him.

John curled his hands into fists and strode forward quickly, but once he was there in front of Sherlock; once he could smell the traces of washed away tobacco, of the mint and vanilla from his shampoo, the fists relaxed into soft, open palms that took hard purchase at Sherlock’s hair, feeling every wild tendril between his fingertips. He didn’t look at Sherlock, couldn’t bring himself to from that close. Instead, he laid his head down where neck met shoulder, and moved his hands down to hold tightly at Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock stood there, tall and awkward, letting John hold onto him, his own hands nervously hovering.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

John’s stomach flipped for the tiniest of moments at that confirmation, “hug me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly around him without needing to be asked a second time. With Sherlock’s hands finally on John’s body, his breath hitched, and he felt a tight knot begin to form in the back of his throat.

“In all of the scenarios I played of this moment in my head, I don’t think you ever hugged me in any of them.” Sherlock said into the top of John’s head.

“That’s because you don’t like hugging.” He squeezed Sherlock a little tighter, “But I always have.”

They stood there a few minutes longer until John let go and finally, _finally_ looked into Sherlock’s eyes, blinking back the wetness in his own.

“I think you need to explain something to me.” He said.

“Why I’m not dead?”

“Actually, why you were dead in the first place.”

“Right.”

Sherlock stepped away and bit down on his bottom lip; worrying nervously at it. Sherlock was never nervous. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“It was kind of a long three years.”

The shock and relief of having Sherlock back in his proximity was starting to wear off and give way to anger once again. John watched Sherlock’s demeanor change from the cold nervousness he had been displaying to something more quiet and reserved. He outstretched his hand and brushed his fingers against the fabric of John’s suit at his shoulder.

“Can I see it?” he asked, eyes transfixed, as if he was trying to see through the material.

“I don’t really think now is the appropriate time.”

“But it is. That wound hiding underneath there is because of me.” He shifted his gave over John’s eyes, and held him in his gaze, “and I would very much like to see the damage I caused.”

John sighed and gave into Sherlock’s request quickly. He undid the two buttons of his jacket, slid it off and laid it across the chair nearest to him. He watched Sherlock watching him as he uneasily pushed the buttons of his shirt through the small stitched holes. He had undressed for Sherlock many times before, 730 at the very least, but this time was so much different. It wasn’t sexual; Sherlock only wanted to see John’s scar, and yet there was no way it couldn’t be sexual; laced with an underlay of tension and desire.

John made it to the very last button and shrugged it from his shoulders to lie atop his jacket. He still had one more layer to go. Sherlock’s eyes intensified as john touched the hem of his shirt and lifted it up over his arms; over his head.  In a flurried flash of black of white Sherlock was there, in front of him; hungry eyes grazing John’s slightly more doughy figure, but quickly landing on the scar.

“Interesting.” He whispered.

John huffed a laugh, “Only you would think so.”

Sherlock ventured to touch the raised, white flesh; a soft, hesitant touch that traced the outline of the imperfect starburst. He followed each line down from the middle and then back up again. John stood there, shivering underneath Sherlock’s touch, and not daring to look down at him. He was very aware of what little attire was left between the two of them, and very aware of how much he wanted there to be even less.

“Sherlock.” He said with a voice low and shaky, “Explain to me now, please.”

“Right.” Sherlock tore himself away from his inspection, and sat down on the edge of the bed. John took the chair at the table.

“There was a case; several cases in fact, but one man. Moriarty. We were playing a game, and in the end…I had to lose.”

“Lose?”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away; he sat there and searched for an answer to placate John, because in truth, Sherlock wasn’t even sure what his game with Moriarty had meant.

“All that matters John is that you were going to be killed unless I killed myself.” He took in a deep breath, “So, I did.”

“What does that have to do with my being shot?”

“Another long story, but the man meant to kill you that day had I not done what Moriarty asked of me felt the need to damage you anyhow.”

“And the last three years?”

“Taking care of things.”

“I see.”

A silence fell over the room while John took in the little bit of information Sherlock had given him. He wanted to know more, felt like he deserved to know more, but Sherlock wouldn’t give more; he had already given him what he could.

“Was it hard?” John finally asked.

“Jumping off the roof of the hospital? No, it was quite easy actually. But if you mean jumping off the roof of a hospital not knowing when or if I was ever going to see you again, then yes; that was terribly difficult. But don’t think for even a moment that I wouldn’t do it again if meant saving you.”

“I know Sherlock. I know.”

Another silence fell between them, broken yet again by John’s bravery to speak. Or maybe it was his cowardice to sit in the quiet.

“I’m seeing someone.” He said. He wasn’t sure why in that moment it felt right to let Sherlock know that, but for some reason it just came out. “More than seeing actually; I proposed tonight.”

“Yes; to Mary. A lovely blonde nurse who sleeps on my side of the bed, keeps her clothes on my side of the wardrobe, and keeps her toothbrush where mine used to be.”

Sherlock’s words weren’t their usual cold scathe, but rather they were sad and distant. It broke John’s heart.

“I thought you were dead. I didn’t expect Mary to come alone, and I didn’t go looking for her, but she did, and I found her; what was I supposed to do?”

“It’s fine John. Really, you did what you had to do.”

John smiled, “that’s lovely. Did Mycroft tell you that you should say that?”

“More or less; I improvised a bit.”

“Mind telling me how you really feel then?”

Sherlock took in a deep breath, “She sleeps on my side of the bed, keeps her clothes on my side of the wardrobe, and her toothbrush is where mine used to be. She kisses you, feels you, fucks you, and she gets to drink your tea. I want to rip all of her pretty little blonde hairs out and poison the tuna sandwich she eats for lunch.”

John laughed, “That’s more like it.”

Sherlock found his composure again; catching his breath, running his fingers through his hair and resisting the temptation to light a cigarette and start pacing the room.

“That being said, I have something for you.” He reached to the desk behind him and slid off a packet of papers to hand to John.

John eyed them closely, “Divorce papers?”

“Yes. By the end of the week I will be legally alive again, and she will be married again. I’ve signed already. You can either do it now or bring them with you and sign at your leisure. Mycroft will have someone pick them up when you’ve finished.”

“But why?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, feeling as though he had already answered that question, “Because you love somebody else now.”

John stood from the chair and crossed the room to Sherlock. He brought his hands up to his face, holding it tightly between his palms.

“But I love you still.” He whispered, brushing his lips ever so lightly against Sherlock’s.

John let go of his face, but they stayed close together, breathing each other’s air, bathing in each other’s warmth.

“John, I-I need to kiss you.” Not want; Sherlock didn’t _want_ to kiss John; he absolutely needed to. “It’s been 30 minutes, and I haven’t kissed you yet…please.”

“It’s been _five years_ Sherlock. Of course you can kiss me.”

Their lips crashed together, comfortably seeking the other’s out as if no time had passed between this and the last kiss. Yet the urgency with which tongue pressed against tongue, and swept across teeth held every second of pain and ache that had built up over years apart. Sherlock felt so right in John’s arms; his place had been carved out inside of them long ago. They kissed until their lips ached, until they were swollen, red and angry, and still it wasn’t enough. But as a knock came to the door just as their hands finally remembered what they were for, they pulled apart.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness! So, this kind of went on an improptu hiatus- I hadn't even been planning on it, but I sort of lost inspiration for a while, and now that I've finished two new stories, I seem to have gotten it back!
> 
> And since, I have a current WIP that is mostly in the revise/edit and post phase, and am slowly working on something new that is just in the first phase of outlining my ideas, I decided I can start posting this again. Seeing as I started it before season 3 had premiered, a few of my ideas as to where this is going might be changing to be a bit more canon compliant on the Mary front, but we'll see- I'm playing around with a couple different things a few chapters down the road from this one.
> 
> Anyway, I will shut the heck up now!
> 
> Read.  
> Review.  
> Come back for More!
> 
>  
> 
> ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 

"It's Mary. I told her to come up of I wasn't back after a while." John said to Sherlock after a beat.  
  
"Why did you do that?"  
  
"Well, I didn't know I was coming up here to you."  
  
"Really? Mycroft picks you up from the street, gives you that ugly, sly smile of his, brings you to a hotel, and has you come up here alone, and you didn't have a feeling I might be on the other side of that door?"  
  
"Why the bloody hell would I? You're dead!"  
  
Yes, there was the anger; it was still there after all. Another knock came at the door, and then a voice.  
  
"John? John, it's me. Are you alright?"  
  
Sherlock sighed, and tossed his hands up in the air, "for God's sake, let her in."  
  
John just stood there and stared at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Are you going to stay ...standing there?"  
  
"Am I going to stay standing here?" Sherlock repeated. "Yes, I am."  
  
"It's just well, she's seen photos of you, and-"  
  
"And I'm dead, yes, I get it. Just open the door, John."  
  
John relented, and wrung his hands together as he slowly went to the door. He looked back behind him at Sherlock to see him still standing in the middle of the room, and pushed down the curled knob to open the door to Mary.  
  
She stood on the other side, worry apparent in the creases of her eyes, but a smile of relief on her face when she saw him.  
  
"Everything okay?" She asked.  
  
"Uh, that's a bit difficult to answer actually." John looked around her, down both sides of the hallway with a look of interest.  
  
"Where is Mycroft?"  
  
"In the lobby I would imagine. He didn't seem to keen on accompanying me to the loo after I fished a tampon from my bag."  
  
John laughed, and remembered just how perfect Mary was.  
  
"So, what exactly is this secret meeting you've been summoned to?"  
  
John hesitated, and started wringing his hands together once again. What was he supposed to say to her? What would anyone say in this situation? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that they would say nothing, because John had to be the only person to ever be placed into it.  
  
"John?" Mary prompted at his shoulder after he had been quite for too long.  
  
"Why, don't you just come inside?" He let his arm fall away from the door frame where he had been trying to block her view into the room, and backed away, off to the side.  
  
Mary stepped in, and took notice of Sherlock standing just in front of her, a few feet away. It took her a moment of looking him in the face, and then looking, questioning to John before her hand flew over her mouth.  
  
"Oh my God." She mumbled into her fingers.  
  
"Not quite, but I'm flattered." Sherlock responded.  
  
Mary's hand fell, and the shocked expression she had been wearing suddenly changed into something of anger, and she lunged toward Sherlock, gripping at his shirt.  
  
"How dare you!" She yelled at him, "do you have any idea what you've put John through?"  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. For two years I waited at home for him; never knowing if the morning I woke up would the morning that he died...”  
  
"That isn't the same." Mary said to him.  
  
"No, perhaps not exactly the same, but it does give me a starting point to understanding his pain. I also had these."  
  
Sherlock pulled free of Mary's grip, and reached for a stack of files on the table. He unceremoniously dumped them open onto the bed. Picture after picture of John over the last three years appeared on the sheets; John descending to the Underground, John walking home from the shop with an arm of groceries, John reading in the flat, out to dinner with his sister. There was one photo of John with Mary at the park, and several more where she should have been, but had been cropped away.  
  
"You had me followed?" John asked  
  
"I asked Mycroft to keep an eye on you. Most of these were caught from the CCTV."  
  
"And he just went through hours of footage to send you screen caps of me?"  
  
"After a year away I couldn't take not seeing your face anymore. So, what started out as him just updating me on your well being, turned into photos that I had to immediately delete. The hard copies weren’t given me until I returned. But I missed your face; I needed to see you-even for a second."  
  
"You missed him?" Mary questioned, dropping her handful of photos back onto the bed.  
  
"Yes!" Sherlock yelled, snapping. "I realize that John thought I was dead, and that it hurt and he grieved, but he had a place to go, had photos and objects to touch to see me, and to remember me, and though he was wrong, believing me dead, knowing that I would never come back to him was a much better situation than the one I was in."  
  
"How so?" Mary asked  
  
"Because I knew that he was out there. I could remember his voice and his touch, and I knew that I was the reason I couldn't just hear him or feel him. I had nothing to look at, nothing to hold, no gravestone to talk to. And John was comfortably home, falling in love again, while I was away, hoping by the end of my mission I could truly just die rather than doing exactly what I'm doing to him now."  
  
They all three feel silent. Mary looked off into a corner so that she didn't have to look at Sherlock, whose chest was heaving, and whose face looked as though it might crack into tears. She felt John's hand on her shoulder, and he pulled her near to the door.  
  
"Have Mycroft take you home. I'm going to stay just a while longer, make sure he's okay, and then I'll be there."  
  
Mary reached up to touch his face, and leave a gentle kiss on his lips.  
  
"Take all the time you need love." She said, and left her new fiancée to sort things out with his husband.  
  
John quietly closed the door after her, and then turned to Sherlock. His physical state hadn't changed much save for his cheeks darkening red as he kept holding back the emotion welling behind his eyes. John crossed the room and pulled him into a tight hug, hoping, for Sherlock's sake, that it would break him.  
  
"Sherlock, it's okay. It's only me and you now; let it out."  
  
Sherlock's chest quivered against John's, and his fingers grasped tightly to John's shirt across his back, and John felt the warm, wet tears stain his shoulder before he heard the heavy gasps of breath escape Sherlock's mouth.  
  
John had never seen Sherlock cry; not out of any emotion whatsoever. He thought, on their wedding day, he might have caught a glimpse of a tear in his eye, but then Sherlock had blinked, and the glisten went away. He always believed Sherlock capable of crying, just that it was another side effect of messy emotions he never allowed himself to take part in.  
  
But there Sherlock was; sobbing so hard into John's shoulder, that John was the only thing keeping Sherlock standing upright, but eventually his strength too gave out, and John lowered himself to his knees, tucked his feet underneath his bottom, and cradled Sherlock, gently rocking him back and forth and rubbing his hand against his back, like a lost creature; which John imagined, at that moment, he very much was.  
  
It was three minutes before the sobbing began to subside. Sherlock had a hard time catching his breath, and the air he gasped in made him cough, but that eventually also faded away, until he was left sweating, and  drooling, and sniffling into John's soaked shirt. Too embarrassed to lift his head and look up at John, he turned his head so that his cheek rested on the wet spot, and looked at the wall instead.  
  
"I'm sorry-for that." He said; his voice still shaky.  
  
"Don't be. I imagine you have years with of crying pent up in there. Probably could have gone on for hours of you hadn't started choking on your own saliva.  
  
Sherlock managed a weak laugh at johns attempt to lighten the situation.  
  
"The last time was the day you left."  
  
"Really?" John didn’t let the curious surprise that admission prompted him to show; he just kept running his hand up and down Sherlock’s spine, occasionally dropping his hand into his curls.  
  
"That's why I didn't go with you to the station. I knew I was going to, and I didn't want you to see me like that. I wanted you to think I was strong; for you."  
  
"Sherlock, I know that you're strong; I know that now more than ever before; seeing a few tears wouldn't have mattered to me. I cried too."  
  
"Well, of course you did; you're an open book of emotions."  
  
John laughed, and pulled his shoulder back to urge Sherlock's head up.  
  
"Hey, look at me."  
  
"You don't want to see me like this."  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
Sherlock lifted his head and faced John. His eyes were bloodshot, and Sherlock seemed to be struggling to keep them open. His cheeks and his neck were a fading shade of scarlet, and his lips looked painfully dry.  
  
"Still beautiful." John murmured.  
  
"I'm quite tired."  
  
"Yes, I imagine that you are."  
  
John pushed himself up to his feet, and reached a hand down to help up Sherlock.  
  
"Why don't you go clean up a little, and I'll get your bed ready, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Sherlock shuffled into the bathroom, and John could hear water start to fill the sink as he pushed all the bedclothes onto the floor only to fluff then out and replace them on the bed. He was just pouring a glass of water from one of the bottles in the mini fridge when the bathroom door slowly opened and Sherlock emerged, crumpled into himself, his dressing gown gone, and only his black and white boxer briefs on his body. John immediately walked over to him, and placed a hand over Sherlock's sternum where there were healing scars and old, fading, green bruises. None of those had been there the last time he saw Sherlock’s chest and stomach, which had been so long ago, now that John properly thought about it.  
  
"Look worse then they are." Sherlock assured him, and stepped away from John's touch.

John wanted to tell Sherlock that he was mad; that they likely were worse, much worse than how they looked, and they looked tender, deep, and permanent. But John didn’t want to push Sherlock anymore than he already had been tonight.

Sherlock slipped into the newly made bed. "I suppose you should be heading home then; a new engagement to celebrate. Don't forget the papers on your way out."  
  
John looked down at Sherlock. He did tell Mary that he wouldn't be long, and he did owe her something to try and make up for the disaster her engagement night had become. But the bed was so inviting, and Sherlock looked so fragile and sexy all at the same time. He could stay just a little longer, and the papers could wait a bit longer as well.  
  
John pulled his wallet and keys from his pocket to set them down on the bedside table, and pulled down the covers on the empty side of the bed.  
  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"I'd like to stay until you fall asleep; if that's alright."  
  
"Oh. Yes, that would be fine."  
  
Sherlock took a sip of the water John had left him, and turned the lamp off. The both of them snuggled down into the blankets, making a point not to touch each other as they tried to get comfortable. Which John found ridiculous. Not more than two hours ago John thought Sherlock to be dead, lost to him for absolutely ever, but yet here he was; alive, warm, beautiful, and right there. And John knew that Sherlock thought it was ridiculous too; he had to.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, John?"  
  
"Do you think that you could stop?"  
  
"Stop what? I'm not doing anything."  
  
John rolled on his side from his back to face Sherlock, "stop doing this polite bullshit that Mycroft told you to do with me."  
  
"What would you have me do instead?"  
  
John hesitated a moment. The answer he wanted to give wasn't the one he thought he should, but he couldn't stop himself when he first spoke.  
  
"Touch me. Anything; anywhere; I just want to feel you."  
  
Sherlock gave a half hearted smile, but didn't appear to make any move to comply with John's request. Then he felt something heavy and cold brush against his leg.  
  
"Christ, Sherlock! You're feet are freezing!" John laughed and pushed away at Sherlock's foot with own, only to get entangled with him. John eventually (and easily) gave up his fight, letting Sherlock slip his feet between John's thighs and knees to find warmth. At the same time, John pulled Sherlock into himself until his chin rested on Sherlock's head and he could feel the condensation from Sherlock's breath left on the hollow in his neck.  
  
"You said you would stay until I fall asleep?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Mmhm."  
  
"What if I never go to sleep?"  
  
"Then I guess I'll never leave."  
  
John brushed his lips against Sherlock's curls, and left his face half buried there, closing his eyes against them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you were wondering where the sex has been; it's right here!  
> I didn't think it warranted a rating change, though, I did give it some serious thought just to be on the safe side. I still think you'll be pleased-at least I hope you will be!
> 
> Read.  
> Review.  
> Come back for more!

_John checked the folds and slats of his wallet again; did he really expect to find anything different on this third go around? He held up his finger to the young woman holding his cup of coffee hostage behind the counter._

_“Just one minute.” He said, setting his wallet down to dig in the pockets of his jeans again, and then all the pockets of his jacket._

_There came a huff of annoyed breath behind him, and John turned just slightly to face a large, grey haired man standing behind him; arms crossed over his chest, and money already in his hand; ready to pay for what he wanted._

_“I know it’s here; just put it back in the wrong place in the last shop.” He said to the man, trying to smile._

_John’s cheeks felt hot; he was sweating underneath his jacket, jumper and t-shirt. If he had known he was going to have an embarrassed panic at the coffee shop this morning he would have dressed better for the occasion._

_Just as he was about to give up, let the woman take his disgraced coffee away and dump it into the basin while he sulked away, there was a ruffling through the line, and a voice; deep, rich baritone was suddenly spilling out right next to him at the counter._

_“A double espresso and I’ll pay for his as well.”_

_John turned to look at the stranger holding out a credit card to the girl, who set John’s coffee down to run it and hand it back before going to get the strangers espresso. John watched his long arms reach across the counter and pick up the coffee to hand it to him._

_“Another minute and the man behind you was about to hit you over the head with the illegal pistol he keeps in his jacket pocket.”_

_John just stared; still flustered from his search, and now flustered by the generous deed of this strange, tall, and bloody gorgeous man. He did manage to take his coffee, at least._

_“No need to thank me. If the pistol whipping had occurred, then likely the police would come, and they would want to take statements, and I just don’t have time for that kind of nonsense today. Neither do you seeing as you’re already ten minutes late for your work at the Veteran’s Hospital.”_

_Was he actually talking as fast as the speed of light or was John still stuck in some kind of ridiculous shock? Before John could even answer his own question, the dark haired stranger had left his side and sat down at a small table in the corner near a window in the shop. John took a minute to gather himself, took a long sip of his coffee, and walked over there. The man didn’t even look up from the newspaper he was idly grazing through._

_John meant to open his mouth and finally say ‘thank you’, but instead something else came out._

_“How did you know I’m late? How did you know I work at the Veteran’s Hospital? How did you know that man keeps an illegal pistol in his jacket?”_

_Oh, that was a bit not good. If he was just going to blurt things out like an absolute idiot, he could have at least done it one at a time._

_The stranger just sighed, closed his newspaper, and stretched his legs out underneath the table until the other chair across from him had slid away from the table enough for John to understand the invitation._

_“I knew that you were running late, because you kept glancing to the clock behind the counter and huffing out an irritated breath each time you registered the passing seconds and minutes. Not necessarily concern for the people behind you, though you were concerned about the rest of us, but because you couldn’t believe you were going to be even later than you already were; you should probably thing about getting a new alarm clock or telling your brother no when he asks you to join him at the pub after ten. I know that you work at the Veteran’s Hospital, because you carry yourself like a soldier, but you’re dressed like a civilian; you don’t have the air of a high raking officer or someone who sits behind a desk all day making decisions for other people, so an Army doctor then, and any Army doctor not overseas would be at the Veteran’s Hospital. As for the man with the pistol; I could see it inside his pocket while he thought about reaching it for it.”_

_John just stared at him. He felt like maybe his mouth was hanging open, but he really hoped that it wasn’t. That was-_

_“Brilliant.” John said, finding his voice again._

_“Do you think so?” the stranger asked, looking both surprised and prideful at John’s compliment._

_“Yes, though, you did get one bit wrong.”_

_“Oh.” He deflated a little, “Which bit?”_

_“I’ve got a sister, not a brother.”_

_“Sister! There’s always something I miss.”_

_“How did you even know all that?” John asked him._

_“I just observe.”_

_“Well, it’s brilliant.”_

_There was that mixture of surprise and pride again._

_“So you said.”_

_John took a sip of his coffee again, and looked across the table. He found himself suddenly wanting to know absolutely everything about the bloke in front of him, and wanted for him to know everything about John, and he suddenly couldn’t be arsed to care that his mobile was vibrating in his pocket; the hospital checking to see where he was._

_“Right. Say, I didn’t get your name.”_

_“It’s Sherlock.”_

_“I’m John.” John held out his hand, and Sherlock hesitated for a moment before reaching his own out and clasping it around John’s in a solid handshake._

_“Well, thank you, Sherlock, for the coffee, and for saving me from getting pistol whipped.” He said, laughing as their hands fell away from each other._

_“It was my pleasure.”_

_This was his moment; the moment he had let pass him by so many other time with so many other men and women. The moment where he knew all he had to do was ask, all he had to do was accept a rejection if it came his way; it was the moment he would never get back._

_“Sunday.” Sherlock said, picking up his porcelain cup and finishing his espresso._

_“I’m sorry?”_

_“I know it’s not a typical night for a date, but I’m rather booked the rest of the weekend, so unless you wanted to wait until next weekend, Sunday will have to do.”_

_John felt himself blushing, “How the bloody hell did you know I was going to ask you to dinner?”_

_“It was really quite obvious, John.”_

_John laughed, “Oh, was it now?”_

_“Yes.” Sherlock stood from his chair, and pushed it gently; effortlessly back into the table. He buttoned up his black pea coat, and wrapped a green scarf around his neck. “And I’ll explain why on Sunday; six pm; 221b Baker Street.”_

_And with that; he was gone from the shop, leaving John to watch him cross the street and disappear down the sidewalk and around the corner through the window._

**~ ~ ~**

_It was the thunder that woke him. The rain that had been falling for hours had finally given way to a fairly tumultuous storm. John figured as long as Mother Nature had he decency to rouse him from his perfectly sound sleep he might as well use his few moments of wakefulness to use the bathroom and get a glass of water. John flipped the duvet over his thighs and slid out of the bed just as another roll of thunder came through. He was nearly to the door when his foot made contact with the sharp corner of an immovable object._

_“Ah, shit!” he yelled out, and then immediately bit down on his lip in an effort to silence the whimpers of pain. But it was too late; where the storm had failed to wake Sherlock, John had succeeded._

_“John?”_

_Sherlock’s voice was laced with exhaustion. They had only been asleep a few hours and Sherlock hadn’t slept at all the night before; too close to the results of his experiment on blood coagulation; to which John, thankfully, never got an answer as to where all the blood came from._

_“Sorry. I’m still getting used to the place. I could do a Waltz in the dark at my old flat.”_

_‘Old.’ ‘Could.’ It felt good to use words like that in reference to the brick and plaster walls he used to call home. He had never moved in with a lover before. The idea had been planted and discussed during several, but never lasted long enough to become a reality, and truthfully, John always thought it was his flat that would become the shared home, but John couldn’t see Sherlock anywhere else than Baker Street, and John couldn’t see himself anywhere else other than where Sherlock was._

_“Just hold on-I’ll get the light.”_

_“No, Sherlock, it’s fine; I’m almost- -fuck!”_

_John had started to walk again in an attempt to get out into the hallway, but his foot-same as before- had other plans. A dim light filled the room and John saw the laundry hamper that had bested him. He then heard a suppressed giggle from Sherlock._

_“What?” he asked, turning to face him._

_“Were you just trying to traverse an unknown bedroom in the dark; naked?”_

_John looked down at himself. He was, in fact, completely arse naked._

_He shrugged his shoulders, “I couldn’t find my pants.”_

_Sherlock reached down to the side of the bed and up John’s sapphire blue boxer-brief combination. As he did, the duvet slid deliciously down just to the line of his pelvis. With hair ruffled, cheeks red from the warmth of sleeping nestled between pillows and another body, Sherlock looked gorgeous, luscious; desirable._

_“Actually, you can just put those right back where you found them.”_

_“Oh?” Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow._

_“Yes. I don’t think I’ll be needing them when I get back.”_

_“Oh.”_

_John watched Sherlock settle back against the pillows; slowly, teasingly, and fling the the pants to the other side of the room. The duvet slid down just a little more and John licked his lips before finishing his journey out of the bedroom. He made it to the kitchen, turned the tap on and let it run cold while he pulled down a glass from the cupboard. He filled it, brought it with him to the bathroom, where he set it on the side of the tub, used the toilet, washed his hands, brushed his teeth; recollected the water and returned to the bedroom._

_Sherlock hadn’t moved._

_“You are the most gorgeous creature I have ever seen.”_

_John walked his way toward the bed, and climbed in on his knees. Sherlock, too, got to his knees and met John in the middle of the mattress, turning the lamp off as he did. They were illuminated by the faint street lamp peeking in through the crack in the curtains and the occasional flash of lightning._

_"You're quite a fantastic specimen yourself, John." Sherlock said, cupping John's face with his hands._   
  
_"But that's the difference between you and I isn't it; you're a creature and I'm a specimen?"_   
  
_"Something for you to tame and something for me to manipulate?"_   
  
_"Oh, Sherlock, I don't ever want to tame you. I want you, just as you are."_   
  
_"And I never want to manipulate you. There is nothing that can be modified to make you any better than you already are."_   
  
_John thrust his face forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. There had been no one before and likely would be nobody ever again who made John feel the way that Sherlock did. Sherlock lit John aflame from the inside out. But more than that, Sherlock lit John's whole world on fire; the sun burned brighter, the grass greener. Tea tasted richer, the petrichor smelled sweeter. It was all terribly romantic, horribly mawkish, and Sherlock would hate it all if John said it out loud. Except that, he wouldn't; because John knew Sherlock felt the same. From the moment that Sherlock first told John he loved him, John could see that his world had changed too._   
  
_John, still on his knees, ran his fingernails gently across the breadth of Sherlock's back; either scapula and the trapezlus between, as he felt Sherlock's lips trail away from his lips and suck beautifully on his Adams Apple, and his carotid artery. Then down to his clavicle, his sternum-stopping to roll each nipple between his tongue-before he continued down to John's abdomen._   
  
_As Sherlock bent lower, John could feel the triangular muscle in his back contract, and John splayed his hands across it; feeling the inner workings of Sherlock's body was so intimate that John had to close his eyes._   
  
_"Tell me John, what do you want?" Sherlock's lips sucked against his femoral artery; he already knew exactly what John wanted, but he liked to hear it; liked the affirmation that not only was he right, but that he was wanted; needed._   
  
_"Your mouth Sherlock; I want it around me."_   
  
_Sherlock smiled and straightened himself back up so that he could push John onto his bottom and up against the headboard. John pulled his knees nearly up to his chest, and spread them apart. He watched Sherlock unfold himself in the space between John's legs, made himself comfortable and took John into his mouth._   
  
_John had never been one to watch. Sex was something that he more or less enjoyed with his eyes closed, because the enhanced image he could create in the darkness behind his kids was always better than the messy, awkward reality, but nothing he could possibly imagine would be better than the sight of Sherlock going down on him; his cheeks concaved so viciously underneath the razor sharp bone, his lips upturned in a smile at the same time his eyes shifted up to meet John's; checking in on his progress as it were.  He loved to watch the muscles in Sherlock’s back expand and contrast; his spine arch up and his spine arch down._   
  
_And John watched it all with a selfish pleasure._   
  
_Sherlock was gifted at many things; at everything, and this was no exception. His tongue knew when to back off, when to take over, when to tease and when to run the entire show. His teeth always knew the exact spot and the exact moment to make an appearance and then disappear again. His lips had a stamina and a strength that couldn't be matched, and his throat was always open, always welcoming if need be; perfectly placed fingers at the base just when John was starting to bed for them._   
  
_And then there was the hum._

_The sweet, constant hum that assaulted nearly all John’s senses. He could feel it against his cock; low and rumbling, like distant thunder. He could hear it in his ears; see it vibrate from inside Sherlock's throat._   
  
_What Sherlock was doing to John was nothing short of masterful; an artist at his peak._   
  
_And John made sure that Sherlock knew it. He dug his fingers deep into Sherlock's curls, dug his toes into Sherlock's biceps. He attacked Sherlock’s back, hit his head against the headboard, thrust in time with Sherlock's pace. He moaned and cursed, and made sounds that didn't even have definition. And when he felt that coil of hot pleasure begin to uncurl itself deep within his belly, he made a chant out of Sherlock's name until he came with a scream._   
  
_John started to come back to himself; breath still coming in short bursts. He watched Sherlock straighten up to his knees, roll his head from side to side to work out the crick in his neck, and wipe the back of his hand over mouth. John couldn't help himself. He scrambled forward and attacked that mouth. It was the strangest sensation to taste yourself inside of somebody else, but John relished where he could taste himself, taste Sherlock and taste the two of them together._

_“Anything, Sherlock; you can have anything-everything; just tell me.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him tight; involuntarily rocking his hips against Sherlock’s._

_“Mmm, surprise me.” He said through an oxygen filled moan._

_John kept them like that for a minute or two more; slowly lavishing kisses on Sherlock’s lips, down his jaw, up his cheekbones. He ground his hips against Sherlock in a rhythmic circle, ran his hands up and down his spine; over his arse and up into his hair._

_“On your stomach.” He whispered to Sherlock._

_Sherlock did as he was told, breaking his embrace with John, and laid down on his stomach, flattening the covers and pulling down a pillow for his head. John situated himself between Sherlock’s legs, tapped his fingers against Sherlock’s thighs to instruct him to lift up his hips a bit, and Sherlock just barely situated himself up in his knees._

_John took a moment to admire the set of muscles he had earlier, close up; running  appreciative hands over every inch- Sherlock shuddered with each swipe against his skin. Then John replaced his hands with his lips; messy, wet kisses along Sherlock’s spine; down, down down, until he was just where he wanted to be. He teased his tongue; his lips at the crack, in slow, agonizing circles around his entrance._

_John found long ago, that this was an act he enjoyed more than he thought maybe he should; with both men and women alike, but Sherlock, of course, took it to a completely different level, made John enjoy it even more. Because Sherlock shivered and shook, and pushed back against John, and whined for more; always for more._

_At a point, John exchanged his tongue for his fingers; one at first, then two so he could better hit that bundle of nerves and listen to Sherlock pant harder, whine higher; moan longer. And John added a third just to hear Sherlock scream out John’s name. John knew, that if he kept his pace, kept pressing kisses to Sherlock’s back, kept whispering raggedy breathed proclamations that Sherlock could come; with no other touch._

_And he did. Beautifully; wonderfully._

_“Sherlock?”  John looked down at where Sherlock had collapsed flat against the bed once more._

_“Hmm.”_

_“Do you maybe want to roll over a bit?” he asked, thinking about the uncomfortable mess Sherlock had landed in._

_“No energy.”_

_John laughed. He reached for a shirt he found on the floor by the bed; inspected that it wasn’t one of Sherlock’s expensive pieces of fabric, and gently rolled Sherlock over onto his side. He wiped Sherlock clean, wiped at the sheets the best he could, and rolled Sherlock completely on his back before tossing the shirt into the hamper. John then lifted up Sherlock’s limp arm and deposited himself underneath, letting it fall down to hit John’s chest._

_“I love you Sherlock.”_

_“Mmm, love-too, John.”_

**~ ~ ~**

_John was running late. His meeting with his superior Officers at the hospital had taken longer than he anticipated, and he still had to get across town to meet Sherlock. He pulled out his mobile once he was situated in the back of a cab to send a text._

**_I should be there shortly-So sorry, love. –John_ **

_Sherlock had to be in a strop already; pacing the park, muttering scathing remarks to the people passing by on their daily jog, their stroll with a loved one or their dog ;assaulting the ducks in the pond. This very same date already had been cancelled twice due to John’s work at the hospital, and Sherlock went mental; throwing a tantrum like a three year old with an over active imagination and then sulking on the couch the rest of the night. John appreciated Sherlock’s attempt to make date time for them, but he didn’t understand the complete rage that had boiled over inside Sherlock; they lived together after all; it wasn’t like a cancelled date meant Sherlock couldn’t see John at all._

_John’s mobile buzzed with a reply._

**_It’s fine; I’m by the fountain when you get here. SH_ **

_John let out an amused ‘huh’ at Sherlock’s response to his tardiness. He had expected at least some sort of hateful remark thrown at him. Maybe Sherlock was being sensible that John was just late, but was actually going to show up this time._

_Or, it was the calm before the Sherlock sized storm, and Sherlock was just waiting for John to be there in person.  John put both ideas out of his head, and looked out the window for the remainder of the cab ride, watching the city fly by in a haze of the fog that was starting to settle in._

_He was dropped at the entrance of the park, and he paid the cabbie before setting out on the path toward the fountain. And when he got there, there was Sherlock, sitting on the edge, his great, blue coat dusting the ground, and his fingers furiously typing at his mobile. John kept back for a minute, just watching him. He didn’t look angry, didn’t look like he was going to fly off his handle at a moments notice; he looked lovely, serene; content._

_John kept on his way, and stopped just in front of Sherlock, who looked up from his mobile with a smile._

_“That’s a lovely coat, sir.” John said, teasing at the woolen lapel._

_“Thank you; it was a gift. A ridiculous, expensive, unnecessary gift.”_

_“You can always return it if you really don’t want it.”_

_“I think there might be a ‘you fuck in it, you have to keep it policy.” Sherlock said, standing effortlessly on his feet to loom just slightly over John._

_John laughed, thinking to the night before, just hours after he had bought the coat for Sherlock, begging for him to keep it on while spent hours making love to one another in the middle of the afternoon._

_“Perhaps.” He pushed himself up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Missed you today.”_

_“You say that every day you’ve been at work.”_

_“Well, I miss you every day; you are very missable.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Do you want to walk a little?”_

_“Uh, sure.” John took Sherlock’s out offered hand; interlaced their fingers._

_They walked in silence for a little bit; a slow pace set by Sherlock- surely a great effort given his long legs. John felt Sherlock’s thumb rub across his knuckles. It was nice, it was great, but it was, at the very least, strange._

_“Sherlock, is this the extent of this ‘very important’ date; a walk through the park?”_

_Sherlock didn’t answer._

_“I mean, it’s very nice; just doing this with you, but I thought maybe there was something more you wanted to do? It’s fine, if there’s not.”_

_“You love me, yes?” Sherlock asked._

_“Yes.”_

_“You’re absolutely sure about that?”_

_John laughed, Pretty damn sure, Sherlock.”_

_“Good.”_

_“Why are you even asking? I tell you fifteen times a day that I love you.”_

_“I know; I just needed to make sure one last time.”_

_“One last-“  John tugged on Sherlock’s hand to stop them in their tracks. He turned; confused, to look at Sherlock. “What are you on about?”_

_“I have something I want to ask you; something I’ve been trying to ask you for two weeks now.”_

_“You mean other than reassurance as to whether I love you or not?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Well, out with it then.”_

_Sherlock took a deep breath, and John’s face of confusion only deepened. There was a look of apprehension on Sherlock, and Sherlock was never unsure of anything; so what could be possibly want to ask John, that he, Sherlock Holmes was unsure of what John’s answer would be?_

_Oh!_

_“John, would you be interested-that is would you like-oh, hell; John, will you marry me...please?”_

_John stared up at Sherlock; at his sparkling, kaleidoscope eyes; his ridiculous posh nose, perfect pink lips. John looked passed all that, at the mind inside of him; the brilliance that tried to mask the emotion and feeling that he kept in his heart. John wanted everything about Sherlock; forever and for always. He had ruined him for anybody else._

_John smiled, pressed his hand against Sherlock’s cheek, “Only because you said please.”_

_Sherlock let out a breath that turned into a relieved, nervous laugh; he seemed to have been holding it in the entire time John was thinking to himself._

_“Oh. Christ, are you sure?” Sherlock asked, “I mean, it would be me-forever.”_

_“I am sure, Sherlock. I would love nothing more than to marry you.”_

_Sherlock’s face finally relaxed, and he bent down to capture John’s smile. John let himself be kissed in the fog covered park in the middle of London; let Sherlock kiss him long, and slow, and deep, like he was trying to devour John from the inside out._

_John would let Sherlock anything; anywhere; anytime. Forever._


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up with a start. It was the fourth night in a row his dreams had startled him awake; the second time already that night. He wiped away at the tears that had pooled in the corner of his eyes, and ran the back of his hand across his forehead to clear away the sweat. He looked beside him to see if he had woken Mary up this time, but her side of the bed was empty. John sighed, and pushed the covers off from his body. He touched his feet to the rug below and dug his toes into the plush white material to warm them up a bit once the cold hair at hit them. He found his robe tossed on the bench at the end of the bed, and slipped it on.

There was a dim light coming from the living room, and he walked down to the hallway toward it to find Mary curled up on the couch; soft pink blanket covering her legs and a book in her hands. She looked exhausted; John assumed that she probably was after being woken up by him more times than a newborn baby would keep her up. But she was still beautiful, even with the bags underneath her eyes, and her hair that so obviously needed to be washed falling into her face.

“I’m sorry.” John said quietly, using his apology to alert her to his presence.

Mary pressed her book up against her chest, and tried her best to give John a smile, but he could see it wasn’t really there.

“It’s okay. I just couldn’t get back to sleep earlier; did you have another dream?” She lifted a corner of the blanket as an invitation for John to come sit next to her. He hesitated a moment, but then slid in next to her, laid his head against her shoulder, and let the blanket cover his knee. Mary had been so patient, so understanding through this whole thing, and he had been tip toeing around just waiting for her to crack under the pressure.

“Yea.”

“Maybe if you went to see him; talk to him again?”

“I don’t think that’s going to help. Likely, it would only make things worse.”

Mary sighed, and began to run her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, “John, you need to sign the papers and just get it over with. I know it’s hard for you, but-“

John interrupted her, “Wait, I need to what?” 

“Sign the papers.” She repeated, and then paused, “You are going to sign the paper aren’t you?”

“I-I don’t know yet.” He answered her.

“I guess I had assumed that’s what you had been planning, and it was just difficult for you to actually do it, which I understand, but, you mean to tell me that you aren’t sure you want to divorce him? You aren’t sure that you want to marry me?”

“No, Mary, I _do_ want to marry you.”

“So, you’re going to sign, then?”

John let out a long, frustrated growl, and sat up away from Mary, “I don’t know, okay? I love you, Mary; I love you so much and you need to know that, but - - he came back, and I loved him first. I never stopped loving him; I just learned to live without him- like you taught me.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Mary spoke.

“I think you should stay with your sister or Greg for a while; until you figure this all out.”

“Mary-“

“Not because I’m angry with you.” She quickly told him, “Because I think you need space away from me as well as Sherlock.”

John breathed a small of sigh relief, and lay back down against her shoulder. Mary was right. John had to get away from her; had to stop kissing her perfect lips, drinking in her beautiful smile; feeling her soft hands against his skin. He needed to be alone, needed to miss her a bit as well; needed to see if he even would miss her as much as he missed Sherlock.

 

Staying with Harry was out of the question; her idea of helping  would be to take him to the pub and line him up with endless shots and pints of beer, and John would happily accept it all; an opportunity to forget everything, to stop feeling anything, until he would eventually black out, and John would keep at it night after night. Knowing that that wasn’t going to be a good solution, John ended up on the couch at Greg’s flat.

“You sure this isn’t a problem?” John asked, tucking the sheet Greg had left on the arm of the sofa underneath the cushions.

“ Course not. I can be mate with both of you, right? And it’s not like Sherlock is going to drop by and find you here.”

John laughed, “Have you seen him since he, you know- came back?”

Greg rubbed his hand across the back oh his neck, “Yea. He came down to the Yard after everything was cleared up to see if there was anything I could give him.”

“Right; a case?”

“I don’t have anything on at the moment, but I told him as soon as I did he would hear from me. Truthfully, I’m sort of praying for a good murder; he could use something to keep his mind clear, before he- well, you know.”

John didn’t know. He looked up from his task of turning the couch into a bed, “Before what?” he asked.

“The drugs.” Greg said, in almost a whisper after he hesitated for a few moments, as if there was someone else there who could hear them.

“Drugs?” John repeated.

“Right. That’s how I met him; picked up from an alley just near his flat actually; strung out, and bleeding from some fight he had gotten into. I brought him into the station to sober up; picked him up again just a few hours after letting him out. I didn’t tell you this?”

“It took John a minute to respond, “No, you didn’t. I didn’t know that he had been using.”

“Oh, Christ- God, John, I’m sorry. I thought you knew, but I guess he wouldn’t have told you.”

“He used in University; I knew that, and he was addicted to caffeine and cigarettes when we met, but I didn’t think-“

John couldn’t finish his thought. He just climbed onto the couch, and pulled the covers up to his neck.

“Right.” Greg took the hint, and turned the light off with the switch at the wall, “Goodnight, mate.”

“Night.”

John laid there, his hands across his chest, and stared up at the ceiling. He had no idea that Sherlock had started using drugs after John’s deployment. He never even thought of it as a possibility. Sherlock had told him about how hard it was to get clean; how he hadn’t wanted to, but that once he did, he didn’t want to go back to it again; didn’t want to be the person he was when he was high, even if it did quiet his head.  John didn’t think it was something he would start again, but he had; and John wasn’t there to help him; to save him.

John was thankful even more now, that Greg had been there; had been one of the very few people to see something special and worthwhile in Sherlock.

And then Greg gave him something else to distract his mind; something to distract him from the want and from the pain; and John wasn’t there for that either. He knew that Sherlock was genius; that he could do anything he wanted to with a precision and beauty that would leave anyone in his path awestruck; it certainly always left John that way, and John hadn’t been able to see it; hadn’t been able to stand beside him like he was supposed to. There was an entire part of Sherlock’s life that John had missed; a man that he didn’t know.

John didn’t want to think anymore. His head was going to explode if he thought anymore. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to keep them closed until sleep finally crept over him.

 

In the morning, John listened to Greg get ready for his day; water running through the pipes of the shower upstairs, dishes quietly clanging against one another in the kitchen; the whistle of the tea kettle on the stove, and the click of the door once he finally left. John had the day off from the clinic. A part of him wanted to go in anyway just to see Mary; just to have her make him feel better. That is what Mary did for him. She picked up all of his broken, bent and confused pieces and put them back together again until John felt whole, and right now, John was very un-whole.

He settled for lying on the couch a few hours longer, staring up at the ceiling, humming tunes to himself until his shoulder started to ache. With a groan, John got up from the couch, went upstairs to shower and change, and stared at himself in the mirror for a long minute.  The underneath of his eyes were dark, the creases in his forehead seemed deeper than usual. He looked every bit as battle scarred as he felt, and not from the war he had been fighting abroad.

Right. John knew what he had to do; he would have to go see him.

 

When John made it to Baker Street; when he stopped in front of 221B, he just stood back and stared for a moment. He hadn’t been back since before Sherlock moved from the hotel. John had gathered as much of his and Mary’s things as he could manage and brought them over to Mary’s flat; that had been a month already. John took a breath, and rang the buzzer. He still had his keys, but he thought it would be best not too just go inside; or maybe he was just too afraid to.

Mrs. Hudson came to the door, and truthfully John had expected no one else. She wrapped her arms around him, and cooed a while over how thin he was looking before letting him go. She stood at the bottom of stairs and watched as he went up to the door. John knocked, but this time he didn’t wait for an answer; he didn’t expect Sherlock would stop whatever it was he might be doing to answer his own door; he never had before.

John pushed the door open, and just like that; there he was; standing at the bookshelf; running his finger across the spines of the books.

“Hi.” John said, quieter and more hesitant than he would have liked.

Sherlock didn’t turn, but he grunted some sort of response to acknowledge that he knew John was there. John looked around the flat; nothing much different than how he had left it, but it felt different; it felt complete now that Sherlock was standing in it again. Sherlock’s violin was lying across the couch; the bow resting against it as evidence that it had been recently played. John smiled, and his gut twisted as he started to wish that he had been there to hear it. On the coffee table, however, was something that made John’s smile disappear.

“Sherlock, there are three empty packs of cigarettes on the table, and an empty carton of nicotine patches. You aren’t smoking while you’re wearing these are you, because I’m pretty sure we talked about this when you were trying to quit.”

“I put on the patches when I go to bed, seeing as how I can’t smoke in my sleep.” Sherlock said, finally turning from the bookshelf.

“Sherlock! You’re not supposed to sleep in them either.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a cigarette out from the pocket of his dressing gown and popped it into his mouth before lighting it with a match from a book on the mantle, and tossing the burnt remnants of it into the fireplace.

“You don’t have any other sort of recreational stimulant in here, do you?”

“I have a few bottles of wine, and an exceptional Scotch that Mycroft gave me.”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“Yes, I know. And no, there is nothing illegal in the flat or on my person. Lestrade has been stopping by to check. It’s lovely to see you helping him out. I’m glad you’ve become such good friends” Sherlock unapologetically blew a cloud of smoke in John’s direction.

“That’s not why I’m here. I-I wanted to see you.”

“Well, now that you have, perhaps it’s best you get back home.”

“I haven’t been staying at home.” John said.

Sherlock took a moment to gaze over John; something John had noticed Sherlock was making a great attempt not to do, although, John knew that Sherlock didn’t need to obviously study John to make his deductions; at least he didn’t used to need to. But now, Sherlock had his cigarette burning down in one hand, and his other up to his chin; long index finger resting against his cheek in concentration.

“Lestrade’s couch. Not the most uncomfortable place in the world.”

“Spent a night or two on it?”

“It was where I did most of my detoxing.”

“Oh.” John said quietly. Neither of them had to admit that John knew about Sherlock’s relapse; it was likely written all over John’s face that he knew.

“Yes. So, the little woman kicked you out, then?”

“No. She thought it would be best if I was away from her as well as you to help me make my decision.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a decision to be made. I thought you were just being slow to return the papers.”

John laughed, but it wasn’t from amusement. It was from days of exhaustion and confusion; sleepless nights and a fear to even close his eyes, because he knew he was going to see Sherlock behind his lids. He looked at Sherlock; really looked at him- standing there in blue striped pyjama bottoms, and a thin cotton t-shirt, his dressing gown open and hanging against his sides, and that look on his face that John remembered from many disagreements that quickly turned into blazing rows, because it was smug, and expectant, and it drove John mad, much like it was doing right in that moment.

“Does no one understand that this is difficult for me?” he shouted.

“Surely, even you know how to pick up a pen, John.”

John had had enough. His frustration and his anger couldn’t contain themselves anymore. He had been doing the best that he could to keep it all inside and keep it in check; to maybe be internally clawing at everything, but to appear even and put together on the outside. Now, staring at Sherlock, he couldn’t keep it in anymore, because it was all Sherlock’s fault; everything right down to the moment Sherlock had paid for his coffee.

John crossed the distance that remained between the two of them, and raised his hand to slap it hard across Sherlock’s face.

“I was happy, Sherlock!” he yelled, and slapped his face again before Sherlock had a chance to recover from the first one. He watched Sherlock run his fingers across the red marks that were already starting to form, and silently praised himself for being able to catch Sherlock off guard. He thought about doing it for a third time, but stopped himself, clenching his hand into a fist to keep it weighted down against his thigh instead.

“I missed you, and I hated you for leaving me, but I moved on, and I met Mary, and I was happy!”

“I know that, John. I saw the pictures; I saw the ring on her finger; I know just how happy you were without me!”

They were both shouting at each other now.

“But I have the option to not be without you, and you and Mary both think it’s some easy choice to make.”

“Well, it is, isn’t!? Two years John; two years we were together.”

“Three!”

“Technically, yes; three, but two real years when we knew each other could be with each other, and then four years John, four! You have no idea what my life was like that year you were away; no idea what it was like the three when I was away, and I only have a vague idea of what your life was like without me; and I’m not so delusional to think that we are the same people who so naively married one another all those years ago.”

“You’re right; we have changed; products now of the horrible circumstances we put each other through, but you’re still Sherlock Holmes-Watson.”

John had lowered his voice now that some of the anger had dissipated from the knot in his stomach. He brought his hand up once again to Sherlock’s face; only this time he pressed his palm gently against his cheek. Sherlock winced a little at the contact.

“You’re still a genius, still an insufferable git, still gorgeous; anything else you’ve become in the last four years is only going to be a bonus; something wonderful and new for me to learn.”

“John...” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper as he brought his hand to rest over John’s on his cheek.

“And I’m still John Holmes-Watson. Don’t you see that?”

Sherlock looked at John for a long minute; not the same deductive gaze from earlier, but something softer; warmer. One corner of his mouth twitched just enough for John to catch it. That promise of a smile made John’s own lips upturn, and soon after crash into Sherlock’s as an agonizingly slow kiss. John’s hands found their way around Sherlock’s waist, tugging him in close, and holding tightly; grasping at the material of his shirt, and then letting go to rub circles with his fingers against the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s hands gripped at John’s neck; both of them consuming the back of John’s head; his fingers teasing up into John’s hair. This was a proper first kiss.

Their lips pushed slowly against each other; Sherlock’s top lip trapped between both of John’s, a tongue swiping against a tongue, and a low, satisfied; relieved moan escaping from deep within both of their throats.

“You’re not the same John.” Sherlock said when their lips briefly parted for air. He pushed John’s head back, and pressed kisses and gentle nibbles to his neck, “You taste different, and you smell different.”

Sherlock started to undo the buttons of John’s shirt, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin as he went. John dug his hands into Sherlock’s hair, and reached behind him for the back of the chair before his knees completely gave out and he collapsed onto the floor. Sherlock had all of the buttons popped open and he slid the shirt off from John’s shoulders, letting it pool to the floor at their feet. His eye went immediately to the scar, as John knew that they would.

“You’re not the same.” Sherlock repeated. He said it so quietly, John wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear.

“But I’m still yours.” John said back, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and bringing their lips back together.

Slowly John slid his hands underneath Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it up Sherlock’s skin until it got caught between their lips; they parted to pull it over Sherlock’s head and didn’t miss a moment finding each other again. They embraced one another; their hands running up and down the other’s spine; shoulder blades and up into their hair. Sherlock slid one knee in between John’s legs. Everything John had missed about Sherlock was right there at his fingertips again. If this moment was all that he could have for the rest of his life; if enfolding himself into Sherlock, and slowly kissing him to the brink of madness was all that he was allowed to have, John would gladly accept it.

John left Sherlock’s lips, mouthed down Sherlock’s impossibly long neck, over his clavicle and down to his chest. Sherlock hummed in approval with each new place John found to kiss. A memory came back to John, and he grinned against Sherlock’s skin before sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough that it would leave a dark purple and blue bruise the next morning.

“Oh, God, John!” Sherlock yelled and pulled John back up to him. He kissed John yet again, but gone was the slow, melancholy pace they had been keeping. Instead Sherlock was now frantically trying to reclaim John’s lips; his hands roamed over John’s body like they didn’t know which part they wanted to touch. Eventually they found their way to the button of John’s jeans, unfastening it and swiftly pulling down the zipper of his flies. Sherlock pushed them down, and John did his best to kick them the rest of the way off.

John started to wonder if he should offer to move things into the bedroom, but it wasn’t his bedroom to offer up anymore. He remembered how strange Sherlock had been about letting him in there before they moved in together. Most of their shagging had taken place on the couch or in one of the chairs; a few times on the floor. John eventually found out it was because Sherlock didn’t even sleep in his bedroom; he used it as storage for his boxes of chemicals and other science equipment. But John wasn’t sure his back or his shoulder would take kindly to any of those surfaces now.

“Sherlock...” John said, pulling away. He looked at Sherlock; at his heaving chest, his red swollen lips, blown pupils, the teeth marks on his neck already turning purple, and suddenly John didn’t care where it happened; he just needed to feel every inch of Sherlock against him.

“What?” Sherlock asked a little impatiently once he had enough air back in his lungs.

John shook his head, and reached out for the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas, “Never mind.” He slowly pushed the thin material down, his own body following their fall all the way to the floor; feeling brave he took Sherlock’s pants with them, and he lingered there, crouched on the floor near Sherlock’s knees, looking down at their toes. He couldn’t bring himself to look up to see how vulnerable he had made Sherlock; how vulnerable he had made himself. 

Suddenly John was aware that he was no longer eye level with Sherlock’s knees, but rather with his face. John looked up to find Sherlock’s smile; a rare enigma.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. “We don’t have to-“

“I’m fine; I just-could we maybe go to the bedroom? I’m afraid I’m a bit too old for the floor.”

“Of course.” Sherlock stood, and reached his hand down to pull John up to his feet. Keeping their fingers entwined, Sherlock led John through the kitchen and down the hallway into the bedroom. It had been put back exactly as John remembered; like no time had passed whatsoever, but of course, all the time in the world had passed between them.

Sherlock gently pushed John down against the bed, settling himself over John’s body as John leaned back on his elbows, watching Sherlock cover him.

“I always loved this feeling.” Sherlock said.

“What feeling?”

“My brain shutting down; each door closing except for the ones that pertain to you. I’m never able to isolate one single thought without really working at it, but since the beginning, just one look at your face; your extraordinarily handsome face, and it all goes quiet.”

“So, that’s why you married me; I was a less dangerous way to quiet your mind?” John questioned, laughing lightly as he did.

“No, I married you, because you are brave, and loyal and kind and grumpy, and because you made me tea, and you did my laundry and you never backed away from an argument, no matter how ridiculous you thought it was. I married you, John, because I loved you, because you are the only one I have ever loved, and I was terrified of losing you to someone else better than me.”

John was taken back. He tried to comprehend every word that Sherlock had just spoken without breaking down into tears. Sherlock had been afraid to lose him, and then they ended up losing each other.

“Christ, Sherlock; come here.” John reached for Sherlock, wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down so that their bodies were flushed together.

They kissed, and they rocked their hips sweetly in time with one another. John moaned, and Sherlock moaned, and John wanted to roll Sherlock over; wanted to ravage him and make him yell the filthy things that he used to, but it was too good; feeling Sherlock this way was absolutely enough, and John didn’t want to break it- he didn’t want to let Sherlock go. John felt the hot coil of pleasure begin to uncurl in the pit of his stomach; he wanted to hold on longer; wanted to hold on forever, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

“Sherlock-Sherlock, open your eyes.” He said, moving one hand from where it had been pushing down on Sherlock’s arse to rub his thumb against Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock did as John said; opened his eyes to look directly into John’s, and that was the last thing he needed to push himself over the edge; to fall blissfully, slowly into the crevasse of pleasure and then hit the bottom with a crash. Sherlock followed soon after, pushing himself down into John’s post-orgasmic shivering body, and then they lay there; Sherlock’s head on John’s chest over his heart, and John’s fingers running up and down Sherlock’s spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have seen married John/Sherlock have several different last name combinations from just John hyphenating to John taking Sherlock's last name to neither of them changing their name at all, and none of them sat quite right with me. Then, a friend of mine and his partner showed me their marriage license, and they actually both took each other's last name in the form of hyphenating- they just chose the one that sounded best to go first, and I really liked that, so I decided that is what I would do!
> 
> ....I figured Sherlock would want his to go first ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I cried- a lot- writing this. Just a fair warning to you all. 
> 
> I do apologize for the very long waits between updates, but I find taking time off between these chapters and maybe writing a bit of something else (I almost always have two stories going at one time) really helps me stay focused.   
> However, I am writing chapter 10 right, right now. And I promise, it is a lot less heavy, and a lot less angst ridden. It's still heartbreaking, but only in the way that John and Sherlock not being together when they are supposed to be, is always heartbreaking.
> 
>  
> 
> Read!  
> Enjoy!  
> Comment!  
> Come back for more!

When John’s eyes fluttered open, and he took in the sight of Sherlock’s bedroom around him, he felt like he had traveled years into the past; when it was commonplace, beautiful commonplace, for John to wake up, naked, in that bedroom, Sherlock next to him. Only, the other side of the bed was empty, and gone cold. John got up, dressed, and padded down the hallway into the kitchen where Sherlock sat at the table, the nightmare papers and a pen in front of him. There was no greeting, no post-coital offer of tea. Sherlock simply looked up and John, and asked him a question.

“Are you ready now, John?”

"Fuck, Sherlock-What do you want me to do?" John asked, nearly throwing the papers at Sherlock's face. His chest heaved; his eyes were bright and wild with anger and frustration.  
  
"I want you to do what you feel is right. What you know is right." Sherlock’s voice was so clam; so flat.  
  
"That's just it! I have no idea what I feel is right, no idea what I'm supposed to do here."  
  
"You always make the right decision, John. This will be no different."  
  
Had John always made the right decision? It likely was the wrong decision when he was fourteen and chose to open his father's vintage single malt scotch and drink the remainder of the bottle...by himself...on an empty stomach...in the middle of the day. It was likely the wrong decision when he spent his gap year in India, and ate some strange mystery meat from a food cart in an alley off the beaten path. Likely, it had been the wrong decision sign up for the army, to let them take him away from Sherlock. They had always known that John could be taken away from the London Base hospital at any time; just hoped that it would never happen.  
  
If his orders to Afghanistan, his promotion to captain, hadn't come then John would have been there, would have been able to help Sherlock with Moriarty; decided a plan that would have kept Sherlock alive, safe, and in John's arms, even if they had to run, had to kill and be very bad men indeed, they at least would have been bad men together.  
  
It had, however, been a good decision to sit down and thank Sherlock properly that morning in the coffee shop. It had been a wonderfully good decision to accept his invitation to dinner, and to kiss him goodnight. It had been a good decision to move into Sherlock's flat so that he could see Sherlock's face every morning and feel his body every night no matter what else had been going on in their lives. It was a good decision, perhaps the best he ever made, to accept Sherlock's beautiful, awkward proposal, and then marry him only two months later. There truly was nothing that had given his life more purpose or meaning than being Sherlock's husband..  
  
Signing those papers would take that all away from him; would make it all just a moment in his life, a pile of memories to hold onto rather than build upon.  
  
But then;  
  
It had, and no matter the outcome John would never deny it, been a good decision to speak to Mary about something different from work; to actually make an attempt at real human communication again. It had been a good decision to want her, to need her and ultimately, to love her. It had been a good decision to propose to her; he still didn't regret that. He could see her in a wedding dress, her hair pulled away from her face, and it looked beautiful; she would make a beautiful Mary Watson.  
  
That too was something that he could lose by his decision to either sign or not.  
  
John just wanted to break in half, let each part of his heart go one way.

  
He looked from the papers in front of him now, stared at the signature already there that had settled into the bleached pulp, then up to the man who owned it, on the other side of the table. Could John let that man go?   
  
"Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me that you don't want to be married to me anymore. That you hate me for making you fall in love with me., for you having to save my life at such a cost to yours- making you leave London, the place you love more than me, more than chemistry, and crime. Tell me that you don't love me anymore, and I will sign, because I will do this for you Sherlock, if that's what you want."  
  
John knew that Sherlock was aware of what he was doing; he was asking for an out; any out, either answer would do. John just needed Sherlock to make this easier for him, because John was a coward, and he knew, without a doubt, that it was always Sherlock who would do the right thing. Whatever price he may have to pay for it.  John watched Sherlock’s eyes narrow as his mind started to search for the answer to give him.  
  
"John." Sherlock came around and lightly ran his thumb across John's jaw line. John hadn't shaved in two days, and he suddenly wished he had taken the time to do it before he left that morning. If this was going to be the last time Sherlock's thumb felt that angle of John's face, he wanted to be able to feel it properly, no lazy stubble in the way.  
  
"Sign the papers, go ask forgiveness from Mary, which she will give you; marry her, find a house in the suburbs and have lots and lots of children. And get a dog, maybe two. I had to do what I did to ensure your life would remain intact, and it did." Sherlock rested his hand on John's cheek, and John leaned into the touch, wanting to stay there forever.  
  
"You are alive, and you were able to find love again, and I was selfish to think you would be here for me when I returned. I have been selfish my whole life., but never so much as when it came to you."  
  
Sherlock reached behind him and slid the pen in between his fingers only to place it in front of John's face.  
  
"Sign. If not for yourself, then for me. I want you, more than anything, to be happy."  
  
"And I can't be happy with you anymore?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
John took the pen, put it to paper, and signed. His hand shook the entire time. The moment he went back to cross the ‘t’, Sherlock whipped the paper from its surface and stuffed it into a manila envelope.  
  
"I'll make sure Mycroft gets these.” He said, his voice flat once again, like before. “Shouldn't take long to finalize, so tell Mary she need not worry when setting a date."  
  
"Sherlock.." John said, voice breaking and severing the hard ‘k’ in half. Sherlock didn't notice, or if he did, he was just ignoring John, as he randomly shuffled through some other papers he had on the table.  
  
"Sherloc-k" he tried again, hoping to be louder, but in fact being quieter. Sherlock stopped shuffling, but didn't make a move, so John, suddenly now feeling brave, stepped up and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
"Can you please-can you look at me?"  
  
It took a moment, but Sherlock did turn. His eyes were red, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip to keep the tears at bay. The sight was enough to finally crack any strength John might have had left. This was it. He would turn and leave; this no longer would be his home, Sherlock no longer his husband. He would leave with just memories of the greatest and wisest man he had ever known. Suddenly, he very much wanted to rip that envelope into a million tiny pieces.  
  
"It's really for the best John. You know I'm right."  
  
John laughed through the tears at the sad attempt of a smirk Sherlock made. He lunged forward to capture it as his own for the very last time. The kiss was frantic, desperate, and terribly sad.  
  
"I love you." John said into Sherlock's mouth. "Always, okay-okay?"  
  
"Okay, John." Sherlock agreed, deepening their kiss, cupping John's head with his hands.  
  
"Say it. Please say it back."  
  
"I love you." Sherlock pulled his lips away from John's and John tried to fight him to get them back, but they were already kissing up his jaw line, trailing salty tears as they went, until they landed just against John's ear. John felt Sherlock’s hot, shaking breath travel right to his groin. He thought about how he would never get that sensation again; it didn't happen when Mary whispered in his ear.  
  
"John, I love you."

And so, it was over. Sherlock let go of John, and turned his back. John hesitated a few moments on what to do, then, he left.

John went back to Greg's to gather his things and go home, because there was no place else to go. Mary was home, standing over the kitchen sink washing her dishes from the day. She looked up when she heard John shuffle in behind her, and drop his bags onto the ceramic floor. She could tell immediately by the red, puffy bags under his eyes what he had just done.  
  
"Thank you." She whispered, throwing her arms; wet, yellow gloves covering up to her elbows, around his neck, "thank you." She repeated.  
  
John couldn't return her hug. He was nearly numb. He just stood there as an anchor for Mary to hold onto, letting the dish water drip into his shirt.  
  
"Mary-" he said a bit shaky.  
  
"What is it, love?"  
  
"I slept with him."  
  
Mary smoothed her hands over the back of his head, "its okay, John. I understand – consider yourself forgiven."  
  
"Mary-" he said again.  
  
"Yes, love?"  
  
"I'd like to go shower now."  
  
"Of course- of course." She pulled away from him, leaving a kiss on his cheek as she did. "I'll sort you're things for the wash."  
  
John walked, or rather, he dragged his feet across the floor, and pushed himself up the stairs into the bathroom. He turned on the tap, warmer than usual, and stripped his clothes. He pulled beach the curtain, a frilly pink and white thing, and stepped into the tub. He let the water run over him, let it wash away the salty remnants of Sherlock he hadn't quite scrubbed away with the flannel earlier. The numbness was starting to quickly subside in favour of too much feeling. It was starting to be too much, and then it all finally hit him like a lorry, straight in the chest. John couldn't breathe; he started gasping for air, scratching at the slippery tiles to keep himself standing, but it was too much; he fell to the bottom of the tub. He wasn’t sure how long he was down there, or how long the water had been running, but at some point, the curtain pulled back, and he saw Mary’s face.

"John, John!" She clasped her hands over her mouth, tried to ignore the tears prickling at her eyes at the crumpled, gasping sight of her fiancée, and jumped in the shower, not thinking enough to take off her clothes or turn off the water.  
  
She sat underneath the spray, and reached out to try and soothe him.  
  
"John, love, calm down. You've got to breathe."  
  
John was a doctor, he knew he had to breathe, and didn't need Mary to tell him that, but he just couldn't find any air to fill his lungs.   
  
"John, please-" Mary was nearly begging.  
  
John tried to calm himself. He took in a deep, shaking breath that made him cough for several minutes. Mary reached out to rub small circles against his upper arm, as he rode through the attack.  He was breathing easier; looked up to Mary's face for the first time.  
  
"Your clothes." John said, pulling at the sticky cotton of Mary's shirt.  
  
"They'll dry. Come on, let's get you out of here."  
  
Mary pulled John up, turned off the water and helped John out. He let her wrap a towel around his shoulders, ruffle an edge through his hair like a mother to their child, and walk him into the bedroom. She pulled a clean pair of boxers and at-shirt from their drawers, and let John slowly dress himself as she started to peel off her own wet clothes. John watched her undress, tried to remember the things that he loved about her body.  
  
"I'm sorry." John said quietly  
  
"Don't apologize John; about anything." She pulled down the covers, and prompted John to climb under. "Do you want tea?"  
  
"No. No. Just, come in here with me please; hold me a while." It took a lot for John to be vulnerable; to ask for what he needed, and Mary knew that.  
  
She nodded, and climbed in next to John. He laid his head down against her chest, and sighed into the touch of her fingers against his scalp.  This was it; this was the life he had chosen for himself. There was no question anymore. Mary was going to be his wife, Mary was going to make him tea, do his wash. Mary was going to be the one he kissed every day, the one he loved every night. Mary was his future.

Sherlock was now his past.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woo! 2 chapters in 2 days!
> 
> This one will make you feel better; promise.  
> The next one will make you feel loads better, too. ;)
> 
> Read, Enjoy.!  
> Come back for more!  
> And let me know what you think!!

It was six months before John heard from Sherlock again.  The day had started much the same way his days had been starting. Despite not having to go into the clinic, John woke to his alarm, turned to kiss Mary on the forehead, and climbed out of bed. He shuffled down the stairs into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. He went back upstairs, and pushed Mary's hair from her face, gently waking her for her shift. He made them breakfast while she showered and dressed; kissed her slowly goodbye at the bottom of the steps, and settled in for his day off.

The last six months had been good. It took John a long time to recover from what had previously happened, but once he did; he was good. He and Mary began their wedding planning, they worked together at the clinic; spent lazy nights at home. It was routine, and it was domestic, and John felt like he was enjoying it.  
  
John had just set down for his afternoon cup of tea and to try and finish the crossword he had started that morning when his phone pinged from next to him on the table. He assumed it was Mary, informing her of how dismal the clinic ran when he wasn't there, but it wasn't Mary. John's eyes skipped over the body of the text completely and settled on the old, familiar initials at the bottom, 'SH'. John's breath hitched a little as his heart skipped a beat within his chest. He stared at the message for several minutes before finally being able to read the words.  
  
 _Could use your assistance._  
 _Bart 's morgue. Twenty minutes. SH_  
  
There wasn't even a question in John’s mind as to whether or not he was going to go. John put down the pen in his hand, abandoned his tea, and locked up the flat. He waved down a cab, and instructed the driver to Bart 's hospital. It took about fifteen minutes to get there, and another five to make it down to the morgue.  He pushed open the wide swinging doors, holding his breath a bit, expecting to see Sherlock on the other side, but rather he was greeted by a row of dead bodies laid out on slabs (sheets thankfully covering their dodgy bits), and the mousy pathologist he remembered from the sham of a funeral.  
  
"Oh, hello." She said, looking up from a clipboard she had in one hand, "something I can help you with?"  
  
"I- uh. I'm supposed to be meeting Sherlock."  
  
She smiled and blushed a little when John said his name. It made John laugh a little as he remembered that very same look on his own face in the early days of him and Sherlock.  
  
"He popped off somewhere a minute ago. Said he would be right back."  
  
"I'll just wait then." John assumed his regular position , leftover from his days in the army, of hands clasped behind his back, though much more casual now, with one hand gripping the other wrist, and palm open so he could tap his finger against his back as he padded back and forth.  
  
It was quiet, but John didn't expect much else from a room filled with people and only two of them breathing. . John noticed the pathologist stealing glances to him.  
  
"You're the husband, right?" She asked.  
  
John opened his mouth to answer, but it was another voice entirely that came out.  
  
"Ex husband, Molly; do keep up."  
  
John turned, and saw Sherlock pushing through the doors, his coat billowing behind him like the great cape of a superhero. He looked, in a word, amazing. He was ever so sharp in bespoke black trousers and light blue shirt, top two buttons undone, and his shoes shined like they were brand new. Life without John seemed to be doing him well.  
  
Sherlock pushed passed John without ceremony, and plucked the clipboard Molly had been periodically checking against the bodies from her hands. She faltered a bit, let her cheeks fluster, but gave in to Sherlock's un-asked demand. Sherlock grazed his eyes quickly over whatever information was on the paper and then handed it back to her. He finally set his whirlwind on John.  
  
"John! Glad you made it." He said with a wide grin and an excited tone. He was so much Sherlock; more Sherlock than John remembered, and less Sherlock all at the same time, because John wasn't allowed to embrace him or capture his beautiful, if not devious, smile.  
  
"You said that you could use my assistance?"  
  
"I did, and I do." Sherlock walked between the rows of bodies, "what can you tell me, John, about these bodies, medically speaking, of course?"  
  
John followed the same path as Sherlock. There were four bodies in total, all men nearing middle age, all slightly overweight. Their hair was all different colors and shades. They were all Caucasian. John noticed, upon a close look at the third body, there was a small reddish area on the fleshiest part off his abdomen. A glance to the other three bodies confirmed they all had the same marks.  
  
"Diabetics. They all have insulin injections."  
  
"Good." Sherlock said.  
  
"So, why are four diabetic men dead?"  
  
"That's a good question, John. Lestrade and I both agree they must have been poisoned, but Molly here can't find any toxins in their system."  
  
"I've run the tests three times, Sherlock; there's nothing unusual there."  
  
"There has to be!" Sherlock shouted, "look at them! Healthy, aside from the diabetes, which they all had under control with their injections, and then they die suddenly from cardiac arrest? One healthy man's heart did not just burst and break for no reason, let alone four in three days."  
  
"I know it doesn't make sense Sherlock, but I swear; I've found nothing."  
  
Sherlock slammed a frustrated fist down on an empty slab. He took in a deep breath, rolled his neck from right to left with his eyes closed, and straightened himself back out. John had seen Sherlock’s brand of outburst before, but they had never been like this, and Sherlock had never been so controlled to bring himself back to reality so quickly.

“John, is there any toxin that can naturally combine with insulin; any drug that would be lethal in combination, but would be able to go undetected by Miss Hooper’s tests?”

John thought for a moment, but his mind was coming up blank, “Not that I can think of. I could look into it, and let you know. Are you sure they didn’t just overdose?”

“All of them?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, the fact that there’s so many is a bit suspicious; not to mention it takes quite a lot to fatally overdose on insulin.”

Sherlock sighed, annoyed with himself, “Run another test Molly, and let me know when you’ve finished.” He said, and stormed out of the morgue.

John, standing there with Molly, felt like he should apologize for Sherlock’s behavior, but that wasn’t his job anymore, and the unaffected look on Molly’s face said that she was more than used to it. John bid her goodbye, and he too left the morgue to go looking after Sherlock, but the man hadn’t gone far. He was right across the doorway, staring out the window.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help.” John said.

“Nonsense.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, and John waited to see if he would, but he just kept staring out the window.

“Well, I guess I’ll be getting back home then. It was good to see you again Sherlock. You look; you look well.”

“I’ve stopped smoking again.” Sherlock said.

“Good; that’s good.”

“And only one patch a day.”

“Good.” John repeated.

They stood in silence again; John was itching from it., “Well, I’ll be going.” He said, and turned on his heels to leave.

“John-“ Sherlock called after him.

John stopped. He found himself eagerly turning toward that voice.

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled, and nodded.

  
  
They settled on a Chinese. The restaurant wasn’t far from Bart’s. John supposed it was because Sherlock wanted to be near by when Molly finished running her test for what was going to be the fourth time. John ordered a plate of dumplings and steamed rice. Sherlock ordered nothing.

“Not eating?” John asked, dipping a dumpling into the hot, brown sauce that accompanied his meal.

“Not hungry.”

John laughed, “Then why did you ask me to lunch?”

“You were hungry.”

“Yes, but I could have managed to find food on my own. I thought you wanted to have lunch together.”

“I do; we are. There’s no rule that we both have to eat. It’s lunchtime, there’s food present, and we are together.”

John’s heart palpitated at the last of Sherlock’s words, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He popped his dumpling into his mouth.

“So, how is your wedding planning coming, John? I’m to understand that planning a traditional wedding can be quite time consuming and frustrating.”

“Sherlock, we don’t have to-“

“Yes, John, we do. We never gave ourselves the chance to just be friends, and I would like the chance to do so now.”

John set his chopsticks down against his plate, and looked across the table at Sherlock. His eyes sparkled in the afternoon light coming in through the window; Sherlock always wanted to sit by a window whenever they were out. His face was still the marvelous marble white complexion John had fallen in love with; his mouth still lusciously pink and more than kissable. John wasn’t sure he could be Sherlock’s friend, but he was enjoying being in his proximity again. He was enjoying hearing his voice, seeing his smile, and having something to be in awe of once again, so, if being friends was the only way to have Sherlock back in his life, John was willing to give it a try.

“Alright, then.” John said, “I am finding myself in need of a chiropractor from nodding my head so many times a day in answer to questions I don’t really care about. But, things are getting done; or so I’m told.”

“And when is this big day?”

“September 15th.” John answered.

He and Sherlock had been married in December. Weather wasn’t a factor for them; they didn’t have a wedding. There was no need; Sherlock didn’t have friends, and John didn’t really either; just their parents and Mycroft. Also, they had a hard time waiting the two months they did- they only managed because they were waiting for the custom ordered rings they had purchased to be made and sent in the post to the jeweler.

“Should be lovely.” Sherlock said, reaching across the table and stealing one of John’s dumplings. John knew that he would.

“Yes, it should be.”

They fell into a silence. Sherlock took one more dumpling before John just passed the plate over the table and set it front of the too thin man. He watched Sherlock eat, and started thinking about the bodies they had just come from seeing.

“Sherlock, did any of those men also have high cholesterol?” It wasn’t a big leap to think that any individual suffering from Diabetes, and also overweight may have a problem keeping their cholesterol in check as well.”

“Yes, they all did.”

“Did they all have the same physician?”

“Yes. It’s the only thing we have to go on.”

“There’s a medication for high cholesterol, Gemifibrozil, unless you’re looking for it specifically, it’s not going to show up in a tox screen, but paired with insulin, it’s going to be quite fatal.”

Sherlock jumped from his seat, nearly spilling the water glasses sitting on the table.

“You are brilliant, John; I knew you would crack it for me!” he pulled his mobile out from his coat pocket, and started to type a message at the same time as he was leaving the restaurant.

John sat back in his chair, and watched through the window as Sherlock jogged across the street, his face still in the phone, not bothering to pay attention to the traffic. John laughed to himself, paid the check, and left to fetch a cab and go home.

Once back in his flat, he found that he was still wearing a large smile across his face. It had been months, maybe even years if he was completely honest with himself, since he had smiled like that. He wasn’t sure what it was; being useful, or being with Sherlock. Perhaps, it was being useful to Sherlock once again. Even if John had ended up abandoned in a Chinese restaurant, it had been one of the better afternoons he had had in a very long time.

John hung up his coat, took off his shoes and lay down on the couch. Mary would be home soon, and she would kiss him hello, and ask him what he wanted to do for dinner. Depending on how quickly she sat down in her chair, John would tell her he was in the mood for one of her Shepherds Pies, or he would offer to make spaghetti, or skip the cooking all together, and order take- away.  John was starting to think about the different restaurants nearby that would deliver when his phone trilled from where he had rested it on the cushion next to him. He reached over and unlocked the screen to open a new text message from Sherlock.

 _Physician was arrested._ _  
Had a problem with overwrought men.  
Also, he was overweight. Wife just left him.  
People are so stupidly sentimental. SH  
_  
John laughed. He had seen Sherlock Holmes sentimental before; several times, in fact. Another text came in.  
  
 _Thank you for today SH  
_  
 _You're welcome.  
It felt good to break my routine a bit.  
_  
John stared at the screen before sending what else he had written. He wasn't sure if he should; but ultimately, he pressed 'send'.  
  
 _It felt good to be with you again._  
  
 _Agreed._  
 _I look forward to being your friend, John Watson. SH_  
  
 _I look forward to being your friend too, Sherlock Holmes_  
  
John waited for Sherlock to say something else, but nothing came. He set his phone on the table, and then thought second of it, and slid it into his trouser pocket. He hadn't known Mary to have ever looked through his mobile before, but John had never had anything to hide before.  
  
Just as he was starting to wonder why he felt the need to hide his communication with Sherlock, Mary opened the door with a bang and collapsed into her chair, arms hanging wide over the arms.  
  
"Bad day?" John asked.  
  
"Dr. Farber is unbelievable. He makes me wait almost twenty minutes between patients, and he's always trying to pinch my bum when you aren't there."  
  
"It's a lovely bum." John said, "but I'll make sure to let him know if he does it again, I'll break his fingers."  
  
Mary laughed, "well, I'm going to change."  
  
"I'll get the take away menus." John said, standing up from the couch, and kissing the top of her head..  
  
Despite having said she was going to change out of her work clothes, Mary didn't move an inch, "you seem in a good mood. What did you do today?" She called to John in the kitchen.  
  
"Did the crossword, read up on my journals; took a walk. Is Indian alright?"  
  
"Not Chinese?"  
  
"Just not really in the mood for dim sum tonight."  
  
"Whatever you'd like, love."  
  
John took out the menu for the Indian place down the street, and ordered their usual. After hanging up his phone, he leaked back against the counter, and scrolled through his messages from Sherlock. He sighed, and pocketed out again to wait for their dinner while Mary changed.

His night progressed on as most nights had been; domestic, relaxed; contented. He and Mary turned in early together.

  
  
It was only three days before John heard from Sherlock again. John had just finished scrubbing his hands after applying a more than liberal amount of cream to a rash on a patients arm. He fumbled around with trying to dry his hands and get his phone from his pocket at the same time.  
  
 _Stab wound to the neck of the neck._  
 _Interested?_  
 _SH_  
  
 _I'm at work, Sherlock_  
  
 _She was also strung up from her ankles_  
 _SH_  
  
 _From her ankles?_  
  
 _It's most interesting._  
 _Your assistance could be useful again._  
 _SH_  
  
 _I have three hours left._  
  
 _Could be solved by then_  
 _SH_  
  
 _Well, if it is, let me know what's happened._

John chuckled to himself. He was unsure as to when murder had become interesting to him. He supposed when he started being friends with Sherlock again.

“What’s so funny?” he heard Mary ask from the doorway of his office.

John jumped, like he had been caught painting on the walls when he wasn’t supposed to be, “Nothing- Greg sent me one of those chain things; dirty joke.” John put his phone back in his pocket, “Next patient?”

“What? Oh, yes- she’s just finishing her paperwork. I’m meeting with the florist on my lunch, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with the wildflowers?”

“Yea-yes; they’ll be just fine.”

Mary smiled, “Good.” She flitted into the room to give John a quick kiss on his lips and then disappeared. She soon after sent in John’s next patient.

The remainder of his day was runny noses, arthritis aches, and more rashes than John wanted to see. It was a half hour before he could finally go home that his phone vibrated inside his pocket again.  
  
 _Suicide_  
SH  
  
 _How on earth?_  
  
 _Fascinating, actually._  
 _SH_  
  
 _I don't think I want to know._

In the coming months John managed to join Sherlock on four more cases, and managed to hide each encounter from Mary, though John knew that she was beginning to become suspicious that there was something going on with the man she was about to marry. John could tell that he was brighter, more patient, and attentive, and he was always on his bloody phone.

Mostly, he and Sherlock talked about the cases Sherlock was working on, but since John’s first emotional confession the day they started to speak again, it had become a habit for the both of them, protected by the barrier of the miles between them, the impersonal feeling of electronic words rather than a voice, they shared things they otherwise couldn’t say to the other’s face, because they weren’t brave enough, because they were too scared that they wouldn’t be able to leave their memories at just the words. At least John was afraid.

Watching Sherlock work was an experience that John, no matter how long he lived, would never be able to forget. John knew what Sherlock was capable of; what his mind could do, but watching Sherlock run an experiment was nothing compared to watching Sherlock solve a crime; it didn’t even matter what kind of crime it was, or how long it took him; it was heart-stoppingly magnificent to watch, and if John was completely honest with himself, it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

John sometimes found himself praying for a gruesome murder, because he was itching for Sherlock.

That’s why they stuck to secreted away conversations in the night.

 They were things that needed to be said; a memory that had been nagging one for days for instance. It always happened at night, always while John was in bed, and it always made him feel a bit bad when he would hear Mary sigh in her sleep next to him. But it wasn’t wrong; no matter how much sometimes it felt like it was; it was better than the alternative that John knew he so easily could give into. Sherlock was very much the same man John had married, but he was so much...more. It was the only way John could think to describe him; more Sherlockian than the Sherlock he knew, and it was so incredibly intoxicating.

It was later than John liked to go to bed on a night before work. He and may had been up finalizing their guest list for the fifth, and what John was sure, wouldn't be the last before invitations finally went out. She asked if John would want to invite Sherlock. He said no, laughed, and told her it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Just because they were friends again, didn't mean he wanted him to be at his wedding.  
  
John only did half of his bed time routine; the half that involved undressing and climbing in. He had his head just nestled into his pillows when his phone vibrated on the night stand. It had been a few days since he had heard from Sherlock in any capacity. Sherlock had been engrossed in an experiment while a lull in interesting enough cases had him bored out of his mind. More anxious than he thought he ought to be, he reached for his mobile, and blinked into the bright screen.  
  
 _I'm having trouble sleeping SH_  
  
 _You always have trouble sleeping._  
  
 _No. I don't sleep. Tonight, I'm actually trying, and failing._  
 _You know how I hate to fail. SH_  
  
 _John laughed at that._  
  
 _warm milk?"_  
  
 _Tried it. Tried a hot shower as well._  
 _I've also just returned from a run. SH_  
  
 _Give it some more time. Your adrenaline takes a while longer to fall than others._

_Ashame you aren't here to help. SH_

_And just how would I help you sleep?_

_Doctor’s hands, John._

_They give excellent massages._ _SH_

John felt it then. He felt the wall of defense he had been hastily building up around him start to crack just a little, right at a shoddy seam. He could have stopped it then. He could have assured Sherlock that if he just got into bed, and tried to relax, he would eventually fall asleep. But that is not what John did.

 _I am quite good at that, yes._ _  
_

_Next time, Sherlock, I’ll give you one- to make up for not being able to tonight._

_I’m sure you’re tense as it is; anyway._

_I find ways to relax._

_Though, I may take you up on your offer anyway._ _SH_

_I hope that you do._

_John, I’m feeling sleepy._ _SH_

_Then go to sleep._

_I don’t want to leave you._ _SH_

_I’ll be here in the morning._

_That’s the problem._ _SH_

_What’s the problem, Sherlock?_

There was no answer for several seconds; almost an entire minute.

_Sherlock?_

_‘Here’ is ‘there’._

_Goodnight, John. SH_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this was almost posted as something completely different that wasn't very good. Granted, there was smut in the other version, but it didn't feel right- it was too soon. I'll make it up to you however, in the next chapter. That's a promise. 
> 
> I do apologize that it's a bit short, but if I had combined it with some of the next things happening then it would have gotten too long.
> 
> Comments are always welcome and appreciated!

John watched Sherlock circle around the body, the great coat John had bought him so long ago trailing behind him. He was muttering to himself-John want even sure if it was in English. Every few seconds he would stop, look down at the body and then start to mutter again.

They hadn’t talked about the other night, or what Sherlock had said to John. When John saw him again just the next day, Sherlock was the same had he had been, and so John didn’t bring it up as he accompanied Sherlock to a crime scene near the bank of the Thames.  
  
"Is he always like this on a case?" John asked, leaning into Greg's shoulder. It was the first time that John had actually been at the scene of a murder with Sherlock, and he was finding himself mesmerised by the mad man.  
  
"Yes. It's amazing, and a bit terrifying."  
  
John felt a twinge of jealousy run through his system at the idea that Greg got to see Sherlock like this. He was a living oxymoron of chaotic focus. He was brilliant, gorgeous; absolutely amazing, like Greg had said.  
  
Sherlock suddenly stood ramrod straight like a blood hound that had finally caught onto the scent he had been searching for.  
  
"Oh! Oh! The boyfriend!" Sherlock was nearly jumping with the excitement of his realization.  
  
"We already interviewed the boyfriend!" Lestrade called after Sherlock as he started to jog away from the crime scene.  
  
"The other boyfriend! Come John!"  
  
John shrugged his shoulders, and ran after Sherlock. They ended up in a cab where Sherlock was still talking to himself.  
  
"Every one has secrets; Lestrade' s own wife keeps dozens from him!"  
  
"Sherlock, wanna fill me in?"  
  
"She had two boyfriends; the one she lived with and another far across town. The live in knew about the other- he didn't really care much, but the second man had no idea she was living with someone. He saw them, somewhere; snapped, and killed her. It was all right there the whole time."  
  
"And we're going where, then?"  
  
"To confirm, of course."  
  
"You are bloody brilliant, Sherlock." John said, before he even though about it.  
  
Sherlock managed a small smirk that John happened to catch before it was gone.

The cab stopped outside the home of the man Sherlock claimed was the second boyfriend of their victim. He was outside, his key in the door, and shopping in his arms.

“Neil Wills?” Sherlock asked, sauntering up the sidewalk and neat the steps.

The man turned around, took one look at Sherlock, and dropped his shopping onto the ground, left his key in the lock, and jumped over the iron fence that separated his flat from his neighbors, and ran down the steps toward the alley.

“Why do they always run?” Sherlock mused, before going to run after him.

John sighed, and he too, started to run after the suspect and the mad man.

The alley was narrow, but it was long, and the end came out to a busy intersection. In the small passage the three men navigated through bins; personal ones belonging to the flats, and larger ones from the spattering of restaurants. As Sherlock was just an arms reach away from grabbing Neil by the collar of his shirt, the corner of a rather tall bin got the best of Sherlock; knocking him down onto the ground and grabbing at his forehead.

“Shit, Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked, stopping beside him. He had been a few feet behind.

“I’m fine, just, get him before he reaches the street.” Sherlock barked.

John rather reluctantly left Sherlock leaning against the dirty bin, blood seeping through his fingers still clutching at his head. He ran down the rest of the way, gaining on the man until he was able to reach out and whip him to a halt by the arm. The man fought a little, but quickly gave up.

“Got him!” John yelled down to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled, and held up a tired arm, before hitting his head back against the bin.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

“You’ve told Mary.” Sherlock said, his eyes attempting to meet John’s as John cleaned up the dried blood nearing Sherlock’s hairline.

After they waited for Lestrade and his team to show up to arrest Neil Wills, John brought Sherlock back to his flat to clean up the wound the bin had left.

“Uh- yes. It seemed a silly thing to hide from her.”

“It was.”

John laughed, “How did you know anyway?”

“We’ve been near to your flat several times before, and you’ve never suggested we end our night here.”

“Well, you’re injured, and actually, Mary is out of town.”

“Doesn’t matter. If you were still hiding our relationship from her, you wouldn’t have me here under any circumstance.”

“Right, well—yes.” John faltered over his words, “it’s a bit of a gash-“ he  said, trying to ignore the way Sherlock’s voice had lowered an octave. John smoothed out the edges of the dressing he had taped against Sherlock’s skin, “I think you’ll live though.”

“Thank you, John.”

Sherlock’s voice was lower yet, and it had become a whisper. John suddenly felt a bit light headed. He started to recall their night to try and remember if he had hit his own head at some point and might now be suffering from a concussion. They were still unbelievably close to one another, and John needed only to lean in a fraction, and then his lips would touch Sherlock's. He could smell both Sherlock’s adrenaline soaked sweat and his own; it was quite a powerful force pulling John in. John swallowed. Sherlock’s eyes had been locked onto his own for, he wasn’t sure how long, but too long for John to be able to resist anymore. He licked his lips and took the chance he had been suppressing for months, since he saw him again for the first time at the morgue.

The kiss was slow, achingly so, but it was deep, and returned forcefully by Sherlock. The injured man had stood up from the kitchen chair at some point, and had a hand braced on John’s bicep.

“Sherlock-“ John pulled his lips away from Sherlock’s lips just as suddenly as he pressed into them, “you should go; I’m sorry-I-I can’t do this.”

"I'm sorry, John."  
  
"No, God Sherlock; don't apologise. It was my fault. I don't know what I was thinking."  
  
"You weren't. Adrenaline still running through your body has impaired your judgment; letting your hormones take control of the situation. My judgment also seems to be in question."  
  
"I suppose this rush of excitement coupled with our history is going to complicate things."  
  
"Until we're able to get a handle on it, I suspect you're right. But I meant it when I said that I want to be your friend, John. I respect you, respect your decision to marry Mary."  
  
"Mycroft again?"  
  
"No, that one was all me." Sherlock grinned  
  
"Well, thank you, Sherlock- for that."  
  
"Yes." Sherlock stood from his chair, and slipped into his coat, "I'll be going then."  
  
"Uh, change the dressing tomorrow. After that, you likely won't even need it anymore."  
  
"Yes doctor." Sherlock said with a smile.  
  
"Oh, and Sherlock, if anything interesting goes on, text me."  
  
"Of course, John. Goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight, Sherlock."  
  
John followed him to the door, and closed it behind him. He crossed the chain for the night, and went back into the kitchen to clean the mess left behind.  
  
"Damnit!" He yelled, and threw his medical kit across the kitchen where it crashed into the wall and feel to the floor, various bandages and viles falling out and rolling underneath the cabinets.  
  
John was angry, but he wasn't sure what he was angry about; kissing Sherlock or stopping? He wasn't sure that he even would stop if he hadn't caught sight of the photo of he and Mary on the refrigerator door. He didn't think that Sherlock, for all the respect he had, wrote have stopped either.   
  
John picked up the things that had fallen to the floor, and zipped up the black bag. He tossed away the body flannel, and washed his hands. He didn’t know what to do with himself, so he picked up his laptop from the coffee table, and sat down in his chair with it. As if on some sort of auto pilot setting he opened a long forgotten bookmark to a blank screen with a small cursor blinking away at him. He put his fingers to the keyboard, and began typing. He didn’t know what he was saying, or where the words were coming from, but once he started, he found that he couldn’t stop.  
  
 _I knew a man once who swept me off my feet with a dazzling smile, a quick wit, and an intellect that kept me feeling both enthralled and idiotic. I feel in love with that man, I married that man, and then I lost that man._  
  
 _When I found him again, or rather should I say, when he found me again, he was the same man, only different; more than he ever was before. I didn't fall in love with him again, but I have been enjoying beginning to know him again in this new capacity where I see flashes of the man who was my husband between the images of the man who is now my friend._  
  
 _Sherlock Holmes is a tornado. There is no other analogy to explain him. He's a force that will come in and wreck you until there's nothing left but your bare bones. He's rude abrasive, demanding and often demeaning, but it's brutally beautiful to watch.  He uses his intelligence as a weapon, and it’s a weapon he wields expertly (because Sherlock bothers with nothing unless he can be an expert about it)._  
  
 _It is this sharpness that makes him good at what he does, and what he does is figure things out. A mystery, in any matter, is a puzzle for him to rearrange the pieces until he's found the answer, and believe me, he won't stop until he's found the answer. I've had the indescribable pleasure of watching him solve several of these mysteries as of late, and each time I'm more and more astonished with what I see: minutes of intense focus inside his mind where it's s if no one else is in existence, recalling the entire life's history of a murder victim with just a few glances and a close inspection of a microscope, a flat run through the streets of London- there is nothing he isn't capable of._  
  
 _If I sound enamored, it's because I am. There is no one in existence like Sherlock Holmes, nor should there be. And while I miss my husband, I will never regret a moment that I get to be his friend._  
  
John re-read what he had written, and clicked on the button to post the entry. The therapist he had started to see just after coming home (military's orders) recommended that he start a blog to keep up with his feelings and his healing process; both physically and emotionally. He had never written a word until that night. John reached for the phone, and sent out a quick message to Sherlock.  
  
Www.blogtime.blogs/JHHW.uk  
When you have a moment.  
  
The night went on, and John hadn't heard from Sherlock. He tried not to glance over at his phone sitting on the table every ten drugs as he sat sipping tea and watching late night telly, but fund that he was failing. He was just about to get up and check if the rubber was on our of maybe it had died when a shell rang pierced his ears.  
  
John jumped from the chair to answer.  
  
"Hello?" he said into the phone, the anxiety in his voice even evident to himself.  
  
"John, are you alright?"  
  
It was Mary's voice, not Sherlock's.  
  
"Yes, I'm fine. I, uh, I've just been waiting to hear from you."  
  
"Oh. Sorry, you know how my mum can be. She's kept us busy all day."  
  
John laughed, "Did you have a chance to look at her dress?"  
  
"Not yet. How was your day?"  
  
"I apprehended a murderer today."  
  
"Did you?"  
  
"Yes, and then I dressed a wound for Sherlock, and now I'm just putting off going off going to bed."  
  
"John, you two are being careful, right?"  
  
"Of course. The idiot just ran into a bin. It was nothing serious."  
  
"Alright. I worry is all."  
  
"No need to."

“I trust you.”

John’s stomach fell to his feet. He knew that she was talking about his general safety, but knowing that just hours earlier he had kissed Sherlock in the kitchen that he shared with her, it seemed to mean so much more.

“Good. I’ll let you go then; want to finish my tea and take a bath maybe.”

“Okay. Goodnight, John. I love you.”

“I love you too.”  
  
John hung up and sat back down his tea, not quite to cold to drink yet. He had settled in comfortably with a blanket around his neck and a new mug of tea in between his hands. He had finally stopped obsessing over hearing from Sherlock, and John hoped that he was at least sleeping; he knew Sherlock didn’t do enough of that. He played his simple conversation with Mary over in his head. It was nice to hear her voice. She had already been gone two days, and had three more to be away, and John had to admit that he missed her. Of course, he missed her. Mary was going to be his wife soon; he loved Mary.

It was when John felt hi eyes get heavy that he heard the alert for his text messages went off. He lazily fingered the phone from where it sat at the table next to him, and opened his inbox.  
  
 _Would you?_  
SH  
  
Would I what?  
  
Fall in love with who I am now  
SH

John stared at the question a moment before typing out his answer  
  
Yes.  
  
Then I'm not trying hard enough  
SH


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you so much for all of the wonderful comments and dialogues! It means so much to me!
> 
> Second, I keep promising that things will get better, and then I keep showing you things that say otherwise, but believe me, they will, and quite soon. The truth of the matter, is that this was already supposed to be done with, but I was two seconds away from posting the last chapter, and deleted it to change things up a bit, and it's brought me into some different territory than originally planned. I think it's been for the better so far- at least I hope it is! 
> 
> I won't drag out the tension and angst much longer, cause I know the pain it can cause.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Comment!

 

John nearly kissed Sherlock three times after that night in his kitchen. The first was after a particularity long run through traffic and in and out of Tube stations. But before John's lips were able to make contact, Sherlock turned his head, suddenly interested in a signature on a piece of start art fine over ash advertisement. The signature did lead them in a promising direction on the case, but John still wasn't sure if it was a coincidence or if Sherlock was saying him from embarrassment.  
  
The second time was outside Baker Street. They had just finished a light dinner at Angelo's and John walked back with him to keep their conversation going. It seemed instinctual to lean in once they had said goodnight; John just couldn't stop himself. Sherlock deflected that one by answering a text from Lestrade that he had ignored during dinner.  
  
The third time was after answering an hour's worth of questions at the Yard, sitting side by side in a taxi. Sherlock reached his arm out and tightened his fingers around John's wrist to stop him. He didn't say anything, just gently placed John's hand back down into his lap, and turned to look out the window at London passing them by.  
  
Sherlock never said anything; he didn't look at John any differently or act as though anything was going on at all. He just carried on like John wasn't a horny teenager with no control over himself. John appreciated and hated Sherlock all the same for it. He was going mad. Ever since Sherlock had come back, he felt like all he had done was go mad.  
  
He made the decision one night, cleaning up the kitchen after dinner that he was going to have to talk to Sherlock, before he did something undeniably stupid. He just wasn’t sure what he was going to say.  
  
"John, now that you and Sherlock are friends again, and now that I know you're friends, do you want to reconsider inviting him to the wedding?" Mary asked, handing a plate to John from the dishwasher.  
  
"I don't think so." John said, taking the plate and putting it with the stack of clean ones in the cupboard.  
  
Mary sighed, and stopped midway with the glass she was handing him, "John, I have to ask, because if I don't I'll wonder forever, but- do you still have feelings for him?"  
  
"I don't-I don't really know how to answer that Mary. I mean what would you do if it was you; if Evan had come back?"  
  
"I've thought about that, and I don't know John, but it doesn't matter; he isn't. There aren't any miracles for me."  
  
A miracle. That's what it had been. Sherlock coming back to him was nothing short of divine intervention (if John were to believe in such things), and what did he do with it? He threw it away for the woman standing forlornly in their kitchen.

John looked at Mary. He followed the curve of her face; it was a beautiful curve. John loved that; he absolutely did. There were nights when he sat on the couch with her, her feet in his lap while he rubbed slow circles into her tired skin, that he would feel so content; so happy to be there with her, and he would start to see their future; children, a house out of the city where they could run and play; growing old. It was not a terrible future.

But then, John would be in the back of a taxi with Sherlock listening to him breathlessly ramble through a case, and John could envision their future as well; he would be sitting in his old chair reading a musty book while Sherlock played John a song on his violin. Sherlock’s mobile would ring, and Lestrade would be on the other end, and they would run out. There were no children, no dogs, no homes in the suburbs; it was just John and Sherlock, and murder and mayhem. It was not a terrible future.

And there was the crux of John’s problem.

He sighed, and reached his hand out to rest on Mary’s shoulder, "I chose you, didn't I?"  
  
"Yes, John, you did." She answered, looking up at him.  
  
"Alright. I have a history with him, and I'm always going to love him; you've no right to ask me not to. But I love you- I'm _marrying_ you."  
  
Mary set the glass down and reached up to touch John's cheek, "I know. Sometimes it's just hard being the second choice."  
  
"Mary, you weren't my second choice. I chose you first, out of everyone, when he was gone, and I still chose you even when he came back. Please remember that." John lifted her hand away and turned his back on her.

"I’ll try."

John smiled, and picked up the glass she had set down and brought it up the cabinet. They finished putting away the dishes, and wiping down the counters before settling down for the night with tea and the news. Mary curled into John’s side, and idly twisted her fingers through his hair. It was good; it was okay; it could work.

“John-“

John shook out of the trance he had been sitting in at the sound of Mary gently calling his name, and poking her finger into his shoulder. He looked at her, confused and apologetic at the same time.

“Your phone.”

John listened to the sound of his phone vibrating against the table. He laughed, and reached out to pick it up. He knew without looking they were going to be from Sherlock.

 _8552 laurel street._  
SH  
  
 _immediately._  
 _SH_  
  
 _wear old shoes_  
 _SH_  
  
 _John, are you coming?_  
 _SH_

John typed out a quick response a he started to slide off from the couch.

“Sherlock?” Mary asked.

“It sounds important.”

She smiled, “Go. I’ll leave a light on.”

 

When John got to the crime scene he understood why Sherlock had advised him to wear an old pair of shoes. Not only was there blood pooling out on the floor, but there was a heavy mud and muck that was nearly impossible not to step into. John had never seen anything quite like it before. The victim lied, dressed in pyjamas and a high end dressing gown in the middle of a dilapidated floor in the run down building John had been called to. His clothes were drenched in blood, his face done in to be nearly unrecognizable, and his limbs contorted in such a way that John was certain he had been fighting up until the very end.

John saw Sherlock across the room, standing with Lestrade, having what looked to be a fairly serious conversation. Given the nature of the scene, that didn’t seem strange. He tip toed his way around the perimeter of the scene, keeping his shoes on the cleanest parts possible. He didn’t make it all the way before he stopped, and caught wind of what they were saying.

“Are you sure, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

“Quite. He couldn’t be any deader than if I had done it myself. Even if he wasn’t; this is too messy to be him. Moriarty was an artist; he took pride in the planning and the executing; this is; well, you can see for yourself.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair, “It can’t be any of his men, then?”

“Nope. They’re all dead too. Well, one of them is alive, but he’s in a coma in a hospital in Moscow.”

“Have you checked up on that?”

Sherlock made a face that said ‘ _how do you even survive?’,_ at Lestrade, “Of course I did. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway; he’s also paralyzed from the neck down.”

“Jesus, Sherlock; you left him a coma _and_ paralyzed the bloke; why didn’t you just kill him?”

Sherlock turned around from Lestrade to where John was still standing. There was a look in Sherlock’s eyes that John couldn’t quite place. It could have been anger, fear, possession; John wasn’t sure, but it seemed to ask _‘do you understand now, John?’_

“He didn’t deserve the mercy of death.” Sherlock answered to Lestrade, but didn’t look away from John until after he spoke.

John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat that had formed during the moments Sherlock was staring at him, and finished his journey to cross the room to where the other men stood. He screwed his face into the most normal demeanor he could. He knew Sherlock knew John had heard the conversation; he had stared right at him, and said something John was obviously supposed to hear, even if he didn’t understand it, but that didn’t mean John had to make a big deal about it; just another thing to sweep under the rug where all the other things John and Sherlock didn’t talk about lived.

“What the hell happened here?” John asked.

“Murder, obviously.” Sherlock answered.

John laughed, “They don’t call you a genius for nothing. I can see it’s a murder, Sherlock. I mean, _what_ happened?”

“Daniel McIntyre. 28. We don’t know much about him.” Lestrade started, “Aside from his ID, he had some business cards in his wallet; auto repair shops. No pictures of family, no wedding ring. He’s local from an affluent part of the city. No idea what he’s doing here.”

“Drugs.” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“Drugs. How many times did you find me here Lestrade? These abandoned houses-”

John shuttered at Sherlock’s casual conversation about his drug use.

“There aren’t any drugs on him, and he was wealthy; don’t you think he might have someplace better to get high?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “To get high, yes, but he didn’t come here to get high; no one comes here to get _high._ They come here to disappear; to get so strung out that they might not have ever existed in the first place.”

Is that what Sherlock had done? He said that Lestrade had found him there on more than one occasion. Was Sherlock trying to overdose; trying to kill himself, because John had left? Sherlock looked to him again, with that same question in his eyes, ‘ _do you understand now, John?_ ’ John thought that he was starting to.

“And you think that’s what he was doing?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock turned to the body, and got as close as he could without stepping into the evidence.

“It’s hard, even for me, to tell with him in this state. I want everything you collect sent with the body to the morgue; I’ll examine it there, and let you know.”

“Fine, but Sherlock, what about this?” Lestrade stepped away from the wall, and revealed a small set of letters scribbled into the wall with that looked like a black magic marker.

“Sherlock, that’s your name.” John said, the obvious words falling out of his mouth before he even had a chance to think about it.

“Yes, thank you. It’s nothing. I was bound to pick up another wayward fan at some point; I wouldn’t worry much about it. Come on John, let’s go.”

They settled into a cab taking them to Bart’s, opposite sides; their knees consciously leaning away from one another.

“You haven’t tried to kiss me.” Sherlock said.

“Uh-no. I haven’t.”

John wanted to. He wanted to cross that crime scene and push Sherlock against the wall, and kiss him senseless, but that would have been more than not good, and John _did_ have some kind of restraint. There in the cab, he still wanted to kiss him, but Sherlock’s eyes were still searching John’s face for an answer to Sherlock’s silent question. John was starting to see Sherlock’s motives. He was starting to understand why Sherlock felt like he needed to let John go; why he wanted John to be with Mary instead of him. Where John was falling in love all over again with the man Sherlock had become, Sherlock was terrified of him. He was terrified of what he already had done to John, and what he still could do to him. Sherlock truly believed that the only way to keep John was to let him go.

John could feel his heart breaking inside his chest. “I understand, Sherlock.”

Sherlock searched John’s face with his own tense eyes. They softened when Sherlock was satisfied that John did, in fact, understand what Sherlock had been trying to tell him.

“Good. So, we can do this friend thing without you assaulting me every twenty minutes?”

John laughed, “It wasn’t every twenty minutes, and I wasn’t _assaulting_ you.”

“I was considering using force if you had tried it again.”

“You were not.”

Sherlock grinned, “You’ll never know now.”

The smile leftover on John’s face faded a bit as he looked at Sherlock, “No, I suppose I won’t.”

 Once at the morgue, they waited at the morgue for just over an hour before the body arrived, and most of the evidence bags. In that time, Sherlock had kept to himself, muttering the theories he already had come up with, and John kept up a pleasant conversation with Molly. Once everything was there, Sherlock went straight to work, poking, prodding; examining (far too closely) at the body; combing over the victims clothes, looking for anything he could find. He set John to sifting through the photos. When John came across a series of them detailing Sherlock’s name written across the wall, he couldn’t help himself. He knew that Sherlock was trying to focus, but he had to know.

“You said ‘another wayward fan’ to Lestrade. Who was the first?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from where he was lifting a flap of skin off the victim’s belly with a sterile rod, “Moriarty.” He answered quickly.

Sherlock had been back for nearly a year, and he had never mentioned his name to John after that first night; he had never breathed a word more on the subject, and John had never asked.

“And Lestrade thinks he could be connected to this, but you say he’s not?”

“I watched him shoot himself in the head, John; he’s quite dead.”

“But he had, what, accomplices?”

“More like a network.” Sherlock’s answers were short, and clipped, and John could hear the edge of annoyance in his voice.

“And you killed them?”

“Yes.”

“Except for the man in Moscow. Why didn’t you kill him, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up, “He’s the man who shot you.”

“Oh.” John said quietly.

John didn’t ask anymore questions. He set the photos aside and continued thought the stack to see if there was some sort of clue he could pick up on. Sherlock said nothing else as well. If John had understood before, in the cab, he understood even better now why Sherlock was pushing him away and John didn’t have much of a choice other than to let him. If signing the damn divorce papers in the first place was any indication of how Sherlock always got his way with John, John knew there was no use fighting it anymore. Sherlock had let go, or at least he was trying to, and John had to try too.

Hours passed, and John was exhausted. His shoulder hurt, his back hurt; he could barely keep his eyes open, and Mary had called him ten times, begging for him to come home.

“Sherlock-“

“You can go home, John. If I find anything I’ll call you.”

“No, no; if you need me-“

“I don’t _need_ you.” Sherlock snapped.

‘Right well; good to know. I’ll just be going.”

Sherlock grunted some sort of response, and John picked up his coat from the back of his chair and left.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get two chapters today, because- well because of smut mostly.
> 
> Enjoy!

John looked up from his hands when he heard the knock at the door. He smiled brightly at Mary's face peering through a small crack as she opened it.  
  
"Just one moment, and I'll be ready for Mrs. Johnson." He said.  
  
"John, you've barely been off your phone in days, what could possibly be so important in there?" She asked, a slight tone of amusement in her voice.   
  
"Sherlock just needs help going through some things. His mind can be a mess sometimes."  
  
"So, you've said. Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?"  
  
Along with the constant messaging, John had been out of the house for most of the week. Another victim had been found under the same circumstances as Daniel McIntyre two days after they visited the first crime scene.

Sherlock had come up with a fairly decent profile of Daniel: he was quite wealthy, unmarried, but in a relationship as evident by photo frames around his home, no family in the country, as he was American. There were small traces of opiates in his system, but not enough for Sherlock to be convinced of his earlier theory that Daniel had been there for some kind of drug induced bender. Also, once the blood stains on his pyjamas had been accounted for, it was clear that they had been freshly laundered. The fact he was found in pyjamas at all was nearly enough for Sherlock to be certain that Daniel was not in that neighbourhood or that house for himself. The finding of the second victim only cemented his thoughts.  
  
Ariel Donde, Daniel’s boyfriend was found during a secondary search through Daniel's flat. He too, was in his pyjamas, his face bludgeoned more than strictly necessary. A preliminary tox screen on him showed a large amount of opiates in his system, so much so, that he not been beaten to death; he likely would have passed out and died from an overdose.  
  
Sherlock concluded that Daniel and Ariel shared an interest in recreational drugs, but Daniel had been trying to leave them behind, and wanted his boyfriend to do the same. Daniel had made promises; _get clean, love, and we can be married_. Ariel tried, but someone; a past lover, a dealer, perhaps both, kept dragging him back in. Ariel was the one who had left for the abandoned houses on Laurel Street, Daniel went after him, but he never found his lover.  
  
It wasn't clear to Sherlock if Ariel knew about Daniels death when he returned home; the overdose could have just been the eventual careless death of a junkie, or it could have been deliberate. Either way, Ariel met the same end as his boyfriend by the same hands.  
  
The question now was, why.  
  
"I don't think so." John answered her, typing out a response to Sherlock's latest question.  
  
"John, I-" Mary started and stopped herself, "just don't forget we've a wedding in four weeks.."  
  
John smiled, "I'm not going to forget, love. Send Mrs. Johnson in."  
  
"Okay."

When John’s day at the clinic was finished, he kissed Mary goodbye, and took the tube over to Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting at the desk, his laptop open, and photos from the crime scenes along with ones he had taken himself at the morgue surrounded him. He didn’t say anything when Mrs. Hudson let John up, and that was okay. John made himself tea, and brought it into the living room where he sat down in his chair to look at one of the file folders sitting next to him, though he mostly found himself looking across the room at Sherlock instead; watching the way his shoulders moved up and down with his breath, how every few minutes Sherlock reached up to scratch at his head or look out the window in front him. John had to admit that it was all quite lovely.

"For God's sake, John! I can't do this anymore!" Sherlock suddenly yelled through the otherwise quiet of the flat.  
  
John didn’t even flinch, "Take a break, Sherlock. You're allowed a rest every now and then."  
  
"What? No. I'm not talking about the case. I'm talking about this!" Sherlock flipped his index finger back and forth in the colossal space between them.  
  
"Sherlock, what are you on about?"  
  
"Being your friend isn't working out."  
  
"It isn't?"  
  
"No. I can't focus with you here."  
  
"I'll go."  
  
"I can't focus without you here!." Sherlock took in a deep breath to try and calm himself, "I can't do this anymore." He repeated slowly.  
  
There was always the threat of becoming angry when around Sherlock, and the threat was starting to feel pretty real to John at that moment, but he tried to stay as calm for as long as possible.  
  
"Christ, Sherlock. I know that it's hard, or have you deleted my horrible attempts to kiss you?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Alright then, we agreed it was going to be difficult. You just suppressed everything for so long, you can't anymore. Do a few embarrassing things, and you’ll get yourself under control again.” John picked up the manila folder sitting next to him on the table, just to give himself something to keep busy, and keep his eyes away from that damned look on Sherlock’s face. This time it was saying, _‘I don’t understand anymore, John.’_ , and John didn’t know how to make him.  
  
"John. I miss you." Sherlock said quietly.  
  
"I'm right here."  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"I'm here as much as you'll allow me to be."  
  
"What on Earth does that mean?"

John took in a deep breath, and scratched his fingernails against the loose threads of the red chair. The conversation they should have had months ago; the conversation John had been playing through his head for days on end had to happen.

"Why did you make me sign the papers; why did you let me go?"

“You know why.” Sherlock responded.

“I think I know why, but I want to hear you say it.”  
  
"I hurt you, and I didn’t want to hurt you again. I didn’t deserve you anymore."  
  
John put down his folder again, and stood up to cross the room and stand over Sherlock, "Don't you think that was for me to decide?"  
  
"You did."  
  
"No. I didn't! You did, and Mary did; I didn't make a single decision for myself!"  
  
Sherlock didn't say anything.  
  
"For fucks sake! This is the most ridiculous-" John reached out and roughly grabbed the fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown, pulling him up from where he sat at the desk and into his body.  
  
He didn't kiss him just then. He hovered over Sherlock's lips with the ghost of a promise to push them together. He was waiting to see if Sherlock would pull away; waiting to see if something clicked inside his own brain to tell him to stop, but Sherlock didn’t move and nothing happened in John.The slim amount of common sense John had been holding onto was gone; completely and utterly disappeared into thin air. John let go of Sherlock’s dressing gown with one hand and forcefully grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him.

The kiss was hard, and it was desperate. They both wanted to badly to taste the other, that any technique learned in their 30 some odd years on the planet had abandoned them. John sucked on Sherlock’s bottom lip, and their teeth collided, vibrating a pain up into their heads, and down into their jaws, but neither of them cared; they just needed to be kissing. John moved his hand from where it still cupped the back of Sherlock’s head, and ran it down the side of his long throat; Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth at the slow caress, and he seemed to completely forget how to breathe when John stopped to press two fingers firmly against Sherlock’s carotid artery and rest it there for half a minute. The pair had once taken great pleasure in taking each other’s pulse; fingers pressed against the other’s neck or wrist; a tongue steady on the other’s femoral artery. John had never taken anyone else’s pulse for a non-medical manner since. Sherlock’s heart rate was already elevated, but John knew he could bring it so much higher. John could bring Sherlock’s heart to the brink of bursting, and he wanted to, so very badly.

Sherlock fumbled for John’s chin with his long fingers and brought him back up to his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers then moved to the buttons of John’s checkered shirt; he swiftly undid them each; was thankful John chose not to tuck it in that day, and slid it from John’s shoulders. He made quick work to rid John of his white t-shirt underneath.

Sherlock’s lips then left John’s mouth, and he bent to begin to graze John’s chest with open mouthed kisses.

"Stupid, John, I was so stupid." Sherlock mumbled against John's hot skin.  
  
 _Oh._  Sherlock had grazed his tongue over John's left nipple, "about what?" He managed to ask.  
  
"Letting you go."

 _Fuckinghell. Sherlock, oh, Sherlock._  
  
"I was stupid to let you-- _Christ, Sherlock_ , come here-come here."  
  
John clumsily reached for Sherlock. He undid the buttons of his shirt, untucked it from hiss trousers, and undid the flies while he was down there. Sherlock was half undressed; his shirt and jacket sliding from one shoulder, his trousers barely hanging onto his hips. John kissed Sherlock's lips again, hurried and messy.

It was not a welcome sound when Sherlock’s phone trilled from within the pocket of his trousers.

“John, I have to-“

“No, no.” John mumbled, trying to follow Sherlock as he pulled his lips away.

“It’s likely Lestrade.” Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. As he paced around the living room, talking quickly to whatever Lestrade was telling him, John watched him button up his shirt, and tuck it back into his trousers. John closed his eyes and felt the disappointment wash over him. He reached for his own shirts and replaced them, and slung his brown cardigan on as well, knowing full well that they would be leaving the flat.

“We’ll be there in ten minutes.” Sherlock said, and hung up the phone. “Lestrade thinks he found the suspect.”

“I didn’t even know that we had one.” John said, trying to stick to the conversation at hand, and ignoring the fact that only seconds earlier the mouth Sherlock was using to talk to him was on John’s skin, was making admissions John thought he would never hear.

“I knew it had to be a lover, because a dealer wouldn’t care so much to cause that much damage. These were crimes of passion; the person who killed them was angry.”

“Lestrade said all of their exes checked out.”

John followed Sherlock down the stairs and stood by as he hailed a cab.

“They did. But Daniel’s current lover, it seems, did not.”

“Current? His flat was full of pictures of Ariel.”

Sherlock climbed into the cab first, and John followed.

“Quite current. Ariel wasn’t sticking to the agreement made to quit the drugs, so Daniel broke up with him, and found a replacement, but he still loved Ariel; kept an eye on him, had lunch and coffee with him; he was still trying to get him to quit. He found Ariel at the house, using, and not knowing his new lover had followed him, they had an argument; Ariel left, and Daniel stayed. The new lover came out of the woodwork, so to speak, and killed him.”

“Then, he went back to Daniel’s flat a couple of days later; found Ariel waiting there for him, and killed him too.”

“Exactly! Sentiment, John.”

“Sentiment doesn’t always lead to a tragic end; it depends on how you use it.” John said, lightly brushing a finger against Sherlock’s where they rested on the seat.

Sherlock looked down at the touch, and then looked back up quickly, before hooking his pinky over John’s finger. John smiled, and looked out the window the rest of the way to The Yard.

Once there, Sherlock went into the interrogation room alone, aside from Sally Donovan, as a police officer had to be present, and broke the mans alibi about being in Spain at the time f the murders. Everything Sherlock had told John in the cab had been correct; not that John expected anything else. The new lover was arrested, and Sherlock grudgingly filled out the paperwork Lestrade required of him.

It was nearly two hours before they left. The cab ride was quiet, and longer than it felt like it needed to be. John had kept waiting for the guilt to creep in and take over, but he hadn’t felt it yet. He felt something; but it wasn’t guilt, or even a slight sense of wrong; it wasn’t even a feeling at all. He knew that Mary was home, he knew that she was waiting for him; that she was probably on the phone with her friend Carol going over last minute details that still needed to be taken care of, and it wasn’t that John didn’t care; it wasn’t that he didn’t know what he had done earlier was wrong, or that what he was thinking of doing the moment they got back upstairs into Sherlock’s flat was wrong; it was that he didn’t feel it, and so he couldn’t acknowledge it. Perhaps, it was because John was thrumming with anticipation; with excitement. As they rode in the cab, their fingers brushed against each other again, their knees knocked together, and both of them were breathing low and heavy.

John silently followed Sherlock out of the cab, stopping to pay the driver, and in through the front door; up the stairs, and into the living room. They stood, face to face with another; just breathing and studying the others face to see what they should do next. It was Sherlock who reached out first this time, and took John’s chin between his thumb and his fingers to bring him up on his toes so that their lips could meet.  John pulled Sherlock's coat off from his shoulders and let it pool at the floor at Sherlock’s feet. He fumbled with Sherlock’s jacket and shirt again, letting them fall with the coat. Sherlock undid, and wiggled from his trousers on his own, and kicked them off, while John did well to undress himself.

 John dropped to his knees, and kissed at Sherlock's stomach, his hands firmly on Sherlock's arse. He mouthed at Sherlock, and traced his tongue around his belly button. Sherlock's balanced wavered a bit when John's lips started to tickle at Sherlock’s course patch of black hair, and he clumsily backed himself up against the wall, knocking, a few things off from the built in half shelves.   
  
John closed in the bit of space created between them on his knees, and put his mouth back right where it had been. There was an undeniably musky scent to Sherlock that John had almost forgotten, and it had been multiplied exceptionally by the anxiety of Sherlock’s arousal. He obscenely buried his nose into Sherlock before leaving kisses along the length of Sherlock's cock, and nipping his tongue at the tip. John looked up and smiled when he heard Sherlock's hands slam against the nearest flat, hard surface of the door.   
  
"Mmm, Sherlock, you are magnificent." John said, licking a slow stripe on the underside of Sherlock's erection.  
  
Sherlock moaned, and John did it again before taking all of Sherlock into his mouth. Their last time together had been so sad, and so desperate; John had been trying the entire time to just savor Sherlock, and to remember him in the most glorified, sensual manner that he could. John had wanted to take away the memory of sweet cries, and breathless moans. That was how he had been remembering Sherlock; that was how he had been remembering their relationship. John had almost forgotten that, while those sweet moments of love making most certainly existed between the two of them, their physical intimacy had always been just like this; raw, and frantic

Above him, Sherlock struggled to stay upright with one hand still attempting to grab hold of the door,and his other grabbing at John’s hair. He made the most wonderful of sounds; broken off moans that were starting to give way to whimpers. John was starting to feel dizzy again; somehow, being able to take this new version of  Sherlock Holmes he had come to know in the last five months; a man in much more control of himself, a man with authority and confidence, and if possible, even more genius, made John feel more powerful than he ever had before. John was aware that the hand that had been in his hair was now pushing against his forehead. John took the not to subtle hint, and pulled away from Sherlock. He rubbed his fingers against his jaw; the muscles of his mouth used for Sherlock were different then the muscles he had been using as of late with Mary.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. If anyone was going to be having second (third?) thoughts; it should have been John.

“Nothing.” Sherlock said, reaching down to John’s shoulders to stand him up straight, “That was perfect, only-“

“Only what?”

Sherlock smiled. It was feral, and fiendish. He pushed himself away from what had become his anchor, and slid easily around John until his chest was to John’s back. John shuddered at the feel of Sherlock’s breath against his neck, coupled with the sensation of Sherlock’s hands at his hips. Sherlock pressed his entire body against John; his cock making contact at John’s backside. John reflexively arched into the action.

“Shall I take your pulse, John?” Sherlock asked, reaching two fingers around John’s throat, and resting them where John was almost sure his artery was going to burst.

“Oh my, John.” Sherlock drawled, “We can get that a bit higher, I think.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Over and over again, please.”

Sherlock moved away. He pulled at John’s hips until they were walking together to the red chair just across the way.. One of Sherlock’s hands slid up John’s spine, applying enough pressure to make John bend until his elbows slid over the fabric and his chest rested against the curved top. He felt Sherlock’s height change, and he glanced down to see Sherlock now on his knees.

Sherlock started with rubbing concentric circles on the cheeks of John’s arse with his fingers. Sherlock’s hands and fingers were not smooth like the rest of his skin. They were speckled with calluses from years of violin and rough in other parts from the careless handling of caustic chemicals, and they were always dry from the incessant amount of washing Sherlock was required to take upon himself due to the nature of his work. It was just another reminder of exactly who was touching John; a reminder he didn’t need, but appreciated it just the same.

Soon, Sherlock’s hands were gone; brought down to cup at John’s thighs, and were replaced by his tongue. He started slowly at the outer edge of John’s right side, worked his way closer and closer to the middle, when he then switched to the left side, and did the same. John’s legs felt like jelly, as Sherlock slowly insinuated his tongue into the cleft of John’s arse. It wasn’t much at first, but it had become such a neglected area of John’s body that he couldn’t help but moan loudly at the contact.

 What Sherlock started as a slow re-introduction, quickly escalated into what John could only describe as an attack, reducing John to pants and quivers. Sherlock’s tongue flattened wide through the crevasse he was keeping open by the tight grip of his fingers. John was reveling in the sound of Sherlock’s breath stopping, and then the sharp, desperate gasps for air as Sherlock would lift his face for just a moment before attacking again. He reached a hand behind him so that he could feel Sherlock’s hair wrap around his fingers. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue slipped into John, and John’s breath caught in his chest, and he gripped tight at Sherlock’s hair still in his hand; making Sherlock whimper and drive his tongue in farther at the same time a hand left it’s grip on John’s arse to slide across his hip and grab roughly at John’s cock, running his fingers through the pre-come that had collected at the tip.

“Christ, Sherlock-“John yelled, biting down on the flesh of his arm where he had been resting his head; unable to hold it up any longer.

“Sorry.” Sherlock said, pushing away from John, “I needed some of that.”

John pushed his forehead to the edge of the chair and looked down to the floor, between his legs to see Sherlock, still on his knees, touching himself with the hand that had just been on John.

“Don’t you have some-“

“If it involves me leaving this moment, I’m not doing it.” Sherlock asked, rising to his feet, and pushing the weight of his chest onto John’s back.

“But, Sherlock-.”

“You’ll be fine, John. I promise..” He whispered into John’s ear.

John could have come right then. “Whatever you say, Sherlock.”

John situated himself with his elbows hooked slightly over the curve of the chair, and pushed the lower half of his body out to meet Sherlock’s guiding hand. Sherlock started slow, pushing himself in.

“More.” John gasped, immediately.

Sherlock laughed, but obliged none the less.

“Damnit, Sherlock; more than that! It’s not like this is my first bloody time.”

Again, Sherlock obliged John.

“It has been a while though. More?”

“God, yes.” John panted, reaching an arm behind him to push on Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock pushed in the rest of his length, and John’s head fell with a shout. It was a moment before Sherlock started to move, but once he did, it was hard, chaotic, breath- robbing, and absolutely exhilarating. It had been so long- _too long_ ; since John had felt the kind of abandon he was feeling right at that moment. It had been so long since he had resigned his entire body over to someone else, and entrusted them with his pleasure; it had been too long since he had felt the soul splitting possession of Sherlock, and he needed it.

“ _Sherlock, Sherlock_ , please- don’t ever stop fucking me.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s middle and pressed his stomach against John’s back as he kept thrusting, “Never, John _. Never, ever, ever_.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit short, but it's not full of angst, so, have no fear!  
> There will be a little something more after this. Something fluffy to bring your hearts back from the edge.
> 
> So!
> 
> Read  
> Enjoy  
> Comment

It was the sound of voices that woke John up. He barely had a memory of Sherlock carrying him into the bedroom and settinghim down into the bed, where theyp slid underneath the covers and lazily kissed at each other until they feel asleep, tangled in each other's limbs and swimming in non-sensical, sentimental whispers.  
  
John stretched and felt the other side of the sheets; empty and cool. He knew that Sherlock wasn't in bed with him because he could hear the low, cello timbre of his voice on the other side of the almost closed door, and now he knew by the sound of the sheets that he had been up for quite a while longer than John. He listened to Sherlock's voice, getting lost in it like a dream, and not entirely listening to what he was saying, and just letting it lull him back to sleep.  
  
Then, he heard Sherlock's conversation partner; a light, high pitch register that reminded him of a bird singing from a tree in the park.  
  
It was Mary. Mary was in the flat, now she was in the kitchen, taking to Sherlock while John was starkers in Sherlock's bed. John scrambled to find something to put on, but all of his clothes were still out on the living room. He leaped from the bed and rummaged through Sherlock's drawers for a pair of pyjama bottoms that he slipped on before jumping back into the bed and pulling the covers up as he laid his head against the pillow.  
  
Barely a moment passed before the door was gently opened and John saw both Mary and Sherlock standing against the frame from the corner of his eye. Mary padded into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
"John?" She said, sweetly.  
  
John lifted his head, "Mary, what are you doing here?" He asked, feigning sleep.  
  
"I've been calling you. When you weren't answering I got worried. I called Greg, and he said everything was wrapped up, so I just figured you were here."  
  
"Yea. I- we came back for tea, and I just got really tired. Only meant to rest my eyes."  
  
"Sherlock said, he had to drag you in here; you were snoring on the couch." She said with a bit of a giggle.  
  
"Was I?"  
  
"Quite loudly." Sherlock answered.  
  
"Are you ready to go home now; sleep in your own bed?" Mary asked.  
  
This is my bed, John thought.  
  
"Yes. Just, my clothes-"  
  
"Are in the wash still. Full of mud." Sherlock quickly said as he cried the room to his already own chest of drawers and threw a grey t-shirt at John.  
  
"Right. Thanks."  
  
John shrugged it on and got out of the bed. He followed Mary out, trying to make contact with Sherlock's eyes, but Sherlock wasn't having it. He needed to let him know that it was okay; that everything was going to be okay with them now. He wished that Sherlock had let them have this conversation earlier when John wanted to. John started, but then the kissing had started, and he abandoned all thoughts on the matter. Now, he was leaving with Mary, and had no way to tell Sherlock not to worry.  
  
Sherlock said goodbye to the pair from the window, his hand on his violin case, his eyes already peering out through the curtains. John could only take Mary's hand, and get into their car. He didn't even have his phone to send Sherlock a text.  
  
"Case ended well, then?" Mary asked.  
  
"Yea, well, the man who did it was arrested, but still, two people are dead."  
  
"Sometimes justice doesn't seem good enough, does it?"  
  
"No, it doesn't."  
  
He had to tell her. When he thought that he and Sherlock could talk about it, he was going to wait at least a day, but, sitting there in the car with her, having such a normal conversation, and knowing that Sherlock was back in his flat; alone and sad, and angry at feeling even one of those feelings, let alone both of them, was excruciating.  
  
"Mary-"  
  
He couldn't finish the sentence he was trying to make; Mary pulled the car over to the side of the road, and gripped her hands on the steering wheel.  
  
"How long?" She asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"How long have you been shagging him?"  
  
"I haven't!"  
  
"Honestly, John, I know I'm a fool, but I'm not stupid. Sherlock answered the door in nothing but a dressing gown, and you're shirtless in his bed; it doesn't take the World’s Only Consulting Detective to figure that one out."  
  
"Alright, alright, we did, but it was the first time, I swear it Mary.  
  
Mary took a deep breath, and finally looked over to John, "I believe you."  
  
They were both quiet in the small space of the car.  
  
"What now?" Mary asked.  
  
"I love him."  
  
"Yes, you said this evening."  
  
"I want to be with him."  
  
"I would have done exactly what you did."  
  
John looked to her, confused.  
  
"If our positions were reversed; I thought about it tonight, and I think I would have tried to make things work with you, I would have wanted them to quite badly, but in the end, I would have chosen to go back to Evan."  
  
"Would you?"  
  
"I love you John, but not like I loved him. You love me, but not like you loved Sherlock, and I thought that we would be okay. I thought when you divorced him and chose to still marry me, that it would work out, that your love for him was strong, but in the past.  
  
I used to lie awake at night and think that if he was still dead, you and I would have had a real shot at happiness. and then I just thought at how ugly that was for me to want. Sherlock is a good man; strange man, but good. He sacrificed for you, more than once, he loves you, he's good to you, and he deserves you."  
  
Mary put the car back into drive and turned around on the nearly empty road.  
  
"Where are you going?" John asked.  
  
"I'm bringing you home. I don't much feel like I could sleep next to you and I know the couch makes your shoulder ache. And I keep seeing this image of a cross stitch my grandmother had hanging on her wall; _home is where your husband is."_  
  
John smiled, but he turned to look out the window with it rather than let Mary see. “You’re wonderful Mary.”

“I know.” She said back to him.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way back to Baker Street; if John thought Mary wanted to her what he had to say, he didn’t know what to say. He knew that he had hurt her; he knew that she would go back home to the house she thought she would be sharing with John, and she would likely cry herself to sleep, and it would be because of John. She stopped in front of the building, and unlocked the door.

“Thank you.” John said quietly.

Mary looked over to him, her lips set in a thin line, and a look of fondness cast in her eyes.

“You don’t see it, do you?” She asked.

“See what?”

“Just how magnificent you are?”

“I’m not magnificent.”

“Really? Sherlock gave up his life to keep you safe, and then he gave you up completely, because he thought it was what you wanted, and I’m giving you up, despite, very much wanting to hold onto you, because I know you don’t want this. That isn’t a testament to the kind of people we are John, it’s a testament to the kind of man you are.”

“It still says a lot about you too.” He reached across the seat, and pressed his lips against Mary’s cheek, “I’m sorry, Mary.”

“Don’t be. Now, go on; get out of here.”

John left the car, and lingered just a bit until Mary was around the corner, and gone. He jogged up the stairs, and opened the door. Sherlock still stood in front of the window; he still was dragging the bow across the strings of his violin playing a melancholy tune John was sure he had heard before.

“John, I wasn’t expecting you.” Sherlock turned from the window, and rested his bow and violin at his sides. His face was long, and sad, but it conveyed just the slightest bit of hope as he stood there, looking across the furniture and space between them.

“I know you weren’t.”

“What are you doing here?”

Its home, Sherlock; I came home. If you want me home, that is.”

“Of course I want you home.” Sherlock said, and dropped his instrument to the floor. He weaved through the barriers that kept them apart, and wrapped his arms tightly around John’s waist.

They stood there like that; no words, just breath and the ambient noise coming in from the open window; the whirr of tires against the pavement, tourists calling after a taxi, and the curtains shifting against the books and papers stacked on the desk. John reached up on his toes, and gently kissed Sherlock’s lips for just a slow second.

"This is good, John; it's very good." Sherlock finally said when they pulled away from one another.  
  
"The kiss?" John asked.  
  
"No, well, yes; always, but this-you and I."  
  
"Yes, Sherlock," John hugged Sherlock's thin body into his own, and buried his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck, half pressed against skin and half pressed against silk. "It's very good."  
  
It was like a switch had been turned on, and everything that has been wrong for so unbearably long was now undeniably right. John followed Sherlock to the couch where they fell into one another; Sherlock's long legs draped over John's.  
  
"There is just one thing." John said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The matter of my name-yours too"  
  
Sherlock waved his hand through the air, “Don’t worry, Mycroft will take care of it all tomorrow. If he hasn't already."  
  
"What if he didn't?" John broached.  
  
"You don't want to be married again?" Sherlock paused for a moment, considering the prospect, "I suppose we don't have to be. It is an antiquated ritual anyhow. Just being with you would have always been enough for me."  
  
"No. No. I want to be married again."  
  
"I see. You want Watson to go first this time. I told you it doesn't go well with my name. Holmes actually sounds rather lovely against John; I think we should drop the Watson altogether."  
  
John looked over to Sherlock, spread between the couch and John like a spoiled cat; his bits barely covered by the fabric of his too expensive dressing gown. He was irritating, smug, and an absolute posh git, but he was perfect, and he was John's.  
  
"What I mean, Sherlock, is what if we were to have a proper wedding this time?"  
  
"What exactly about the last one wasn't proper? We wore coordinated suits, we had our family there, we said 'I do'...."  
  
"Yes, and it was lovely, but instead of Mycroft pushing paper work, what if we did it again; not at the courthouse but somewhere nice, with our friends?"  
  
"John, I know three other people besides my brother and my parents whom I would consider being worthy enough to watch us wed and you know nobody."  
  
"Not true."  
  
"All of your acquaintances are from the clinic, and are also Mary's acquaintances. Social convention dictates that when a pair breaks up, the friends acquired during the course of the relationship take the side of the partner wronged; in this case, Mary."  
  
"I didn't wrong her. I righted myself." John said quietly.  
  
Sherlock sighed. "We can have a ceremony in my parents garden. We'll invite Greg and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and we will have a lovely dinner, and dance. It will be quite proper."  
  
John smiled and took the hand that Sherlock was resting on his thigh, and brought it to his lips, "thank you."  
  
"My name still comes first." Sherlock said, raising his chin in the air; spoiled cat indeed.  
  
"Actually, I believe I will drop Watson."  
  
"I was only kidding. I wouldn't ask you to give up your surname."  
  
"No, you were right; Holmes does sound good against John."  
  
"Yes, it does."

John took notice of Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, and the deliberate unfastening of the belt around Sherlock’s middle, holding his dressing gown together. John laughed, and threw Sherlock’s hand playfully back at him.  
  
" That's not what I mean."

  
"Oh, but it's what I mean.” Sherlock leaned up so that he could insinuate himself completely on top of John’s lap; his thighs straddled around John’s, and his knees pressed into the leather of the couch. He leaned down so that he could nibble at johns neck.  
  
"Mmm, I almost forgot how much an utterly horny bastard you are." John said, arching his neck to allow Sherlock better access to the skin there.  
  
"You love it. Always have."  
  
John lifted up Sherlock's head, and locked their eyes together, "I love _you_ , Sherlock. Always have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> (Just hit the submission link on the right hand side!)
> 
> http://mjaw.tumblr.com/
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